


To Bed The Foe

by the13colonies



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Blood and Gore, Canon Era, Doesn't last long tho, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gore, Heavy Angst, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I am not dead!, Lots of it, M/M, Plot, Points of View, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Revolutionary War, Slightly abusive George Washington, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Spies, This fic is still in progress, War, Whamilton - Freeform, changing sides, gotta sit it out fam, main characters introduced later, plot out my ass, this is super graphic y'all please be careful, turncoat alex, very long story bro, very slow burn, work for your happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-12 23:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 114,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the13colonies/pseuds/the13colonies
Summary: Alexander Hamilton, a mere British foot soldier, finds himself captured in the hands of the leader of the Continental Army, General George Washington Esq.George Washington just wants to show him the world.or; a sappy stockholm syndrome romance plot with spies, political ideals, assassination attempts, and friendship, all piled on top of the war effort.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Comments: 50
Kudos: 144





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fellow reader! 
> 
> This fic idea came to me in a dream. What if Alexander had grown up with British ideals instead? What if he had joined the British Army? What if George Washington kept him for himself?
> 
> I went through writing this as looking at their characters as their historical designs, not the ones in Hamilton: An American Musical on Broadway. Please adjust your mental picture, if you wish. I have no problem with seeing them as their Broadway versions. 
> 
> I plan for this fic to be about 500 pages. Currently, I have only written a quarter of that. Please be weary of slow updates.
> 
> Tags to be added!

_ "I can't live without you. And I won't let you live without me."  _

-Sleeping With the Enemy (1991) 

* * *

_December 26th, 1776 _

_ The First and Second Battle of Trenton, New Jersey _

_ The Battle of Princeton, New Jersey _

* * *

Alexander Hamilton was in a complicated predicament, to say the very least of his problems.

The dirt floor of his cell was cold, the chilly December air piercing his lungs. His breath could be seen close to his face, but past the couple inches past his nose, the area was pitch black. He could hear the mingling around of soldiers around him, men's boots clicking and voices talking in hushed murmurs around the makeshift barracks he was in. 

The bonds were starting to hurt his wrists as he tested their strength once more.

The battle of Trenton was a mishap. He wasn't supposed to be there. Alexander was only supposed to deliver a message to Colonel Rall, before Washington in his _ futile _ army marched into the city. Howe had been very clear with his orders; give Rall some letters, have them signed and seen by some of the Hessian witnesses, and return north where new orders would be given to him. Instead, Alexander lay on the cold, dirt floor in a random tent after the battle, with his hands woven tight along with his feet and his mouth gagged. 

If it wasn't for Washington and his _ stupid God damn army- _

He heard footsteps approaching the tent. Alexander maneuvered his body to look towards the entrance of his small tent, his legs straining to move. He could hardly feel his toes. 

The tent door opened and a fairly large man walks inside, but Alexander can't see his face in the darkness. The shadow of the man's head brushed the top of the tent. He must be extremely tall. 

"So. You're not a Hessian." He says, more of a statement rather than a question. Alexander couldn't respond with the gag in his mouth, so instead he kicked one of the polls holding up the tent. 

"I see they have gagged you." The man's voice was smooth, and his shadow incited a thick coat over his already too large frame. Alexander had no idea how to reply to the man, so he instead he stayed still and tried to shift and look up. 

"Well, that makes this easy." The man stated. He walked to where Alexander was laying his head, and kneeled down to face him directly. The blackness faded slightly, and Alex could see the face of the bastard himself.

Washington.

His hair was beginning to white. Odd, for someone his age. The frown lines were starting to make creases in his skin; most likely from the stress of the army. Alexander connected their gazes with his piercing eyes, and he shivered. He blamed the cold, but with the commander squatting so close to him, it was difficult to place fault in something else when his body felt so hot from his face to his toes.

"You aren't a Hessian." Washington stated again. Alexander gritted his teeth. 

"That must mean that Howe sent you. Are there orders to Rall strapped to that scum of a body? A coat pocket, perhaps?" Washington mused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

He was correct. The slim piece of parchment was tucked into Alexander's left breast pocket. 

"No words, hm?" Washingtom sneered. Alexander was ready to kick the guy if he didn't stop.

"Those orders don't matter now. The Hessians gave up with almost no resistance, after Rall fell off his horse with a mortal wound." Washington stood up, the crinkle in his boots echoing within the small space. "You do know that, right?"

The general laughed, clapping his hands together and answering his own question. "If you didn't know, you wouldn't be here so easily in my hands."

Alexander's eyes widened as his whole body tensed. An odd choice of words, from the leader of the revolution. 

Washington moved behind Alexander, where he couldn't see his body's shadow any longer. The anxiety started to rise in the base of his spine, desperately trying to be in control of the situation however much he might he failing at that moment. 

"So easily, in my control." Washington's voice was directly next to his ear, and the shivers immediately with how dark the voice sounded. Not being able to see the other man gave him a slight worry, but nonetheless, he heard the boots of Washington walk around him once more and stand in front of his face. 

Without warning, he felt the press of a cold boot on the side of his face. 

Alexander grunted in the gag, struggling under the increasing weight pressing down on his face. 

"You," the commander spat out, venom laced within his voice. "Are _ mine _ now, and you will listen to _ everything _, I say." 

The pressure on his face increased on every stressed word, and for a brief moment all the pressure was released, and Alexander sighed a breath of solace. Suddenly, the pressure was back against his face tenfold, the cold boot slamming into his face. 

He coughed, and he could hear the smirk within Washington's voice. 

"Be a good boy now, _ Alexander Hamilton _." 

The tent flapped shut, and Alex felt himself groan out in pain. He was sure there was going to be a boot print etched into his skin for at least a couple sun downs, the pain more than likely to leave behind echoes of the event for some time to come. 

He tried to spit, but the gag halted the action. Tears welled in Alex's eyes as he continued to roll on the cool ground, the darkness enveloping him completely. He had no idea when he finally slipped into unconsciousness, but the last thing he remembered was the drinking songs of the soldiers, and the movement of materials out of the city of Trenton. 

  
  


-

George sat at his makeshift desk, going over the recent parchment that was delivered to him with every material gained from the Hessian surrender. Most of the payload was food, which he was thankful for. All of the Hessian artillery, now in the Patriot's hands, was being escorted out of the city of Trenton and into the makeshift camp the army had set up. 

The other papers on his desk included the count of the wounded, which thankfully was not as high as the Hessians. The army he commanded insisted on taking most of the Hessians as prisoners, and send them to Philadelphia where they will be marched through the city and held in a true prison. However, one man was tied up, thrown into an individual tent instead of the tents which held 20 Hessians a piece, and would stay back with the continental army.

Alexander Hamilton. 

_ A man of questionable merit _, thought George. His eyebrows furrowed at the report in front of him as he thought about the man. 

It was strikingly obvious he was not a Hessian. The uniform was different, he was more disciplined than the other soldiers they have captured, and not to mention, he was not drunk while the rest of the Hessians were. They had given up with almost no fight, however, Hamilton resisted. He at first refused to surrender, marching around and ordering Rall to keep fighting. When he was gagged and bound after Rall had fallen, the struggle Hamilton displayed was astonishing to the general. His vigor and persistence was something they needed in his troops, which currently was lacking. 

"Your excellency, sir." 

The voice of Nathaniel Greene cut off his thoughts. 

"You may enter." He responded, making sure to cover the list of wounded with another parchment. Greene tended to worry about trivial matters, and the last thing he needed to pay the most attention to was who exactly were wounded and slowed. 

Greene walked through the tent flaps, the candles flickering slightly from the air rushing into the small space. 

"Please," Washington gestured to the makeshift chair in front of him, "sit, Greene." 

The officer made his way to the chair, creaking under his weight. 

"What brings you here?" 

"Your excellency, the officers around are expecting a Britich counterattack." Greene stated in a monotone voice. He seemed troubled. 

"We should have our supplies escorted elsewhere in the camp, out of Trenton, and into the traveling wagons. When do you expect the British to arrive?" 

Greene contorted his face to a contemplative look, bringing his hands up to his face. 

"Knox said maybe a sennight, sir. Eight sun downs at most." 

George practically scoffed. 

"And what does Knox know about battle? As chief artillery officer, I expect nothing more than head counts of our artillery." Washington scoured through the papers on his desk briefly. "Which he still has yet to give me a report." 

"Sir, the information was relayed to him. The troops are close." Greene spoke apologetically, knowing the information was to be rallied to Washington first, which had not happened. 

"I am working with half of what Congress has promised, and with the enlistment requirements ending on the new year, I am about to lose half my men. Most of my men now are exhausted, drunk, or dying of frost. I cannot afford to not know critical information, Greene." His head pounded and his eyes strained to be able to see the ink on the pages. 

"Yes, sir. However, with this triumph, Congress and the common people must have their spirits lifted from the recent victory."

Washington grunted. That was that. 

"If the troops are coming, then we need to march back to Philadelphia. Most of the reinforcements would be on their way to Trenton once they hear of the battle." George pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"I agree, sir." 

"I'll have my aide-de-camp write to congress as soon as possible. Meanwhile, order the men to round up the Hessians to escort them to Philadelphia before we head." George waved a hand of dismissal, and Greene stood up to make his way out. 

"Oh, Greene?" The officer turned. "Leave the tent next to mine alone. He is to stay with us. A redcoat. He could be of use to us and this army." 

Greene saluted, and was promptly dismissed. 

George sighed as he called out to Tilghman to enter his tent, whom he had seen the shadow standing promptly outside. 

-

Alexander had now been tied up for three sun downs. Fed twice a day; small rations, of course. Bathroom twice a day. 

The only good thing about being in the tent is being able to hear conversations from the soldiers, but most importantly, General Washington. 

Alexander assumed his tent was next to the commander, because he would hear muffled voices of plans and routes being discussed between officers. 

Most of the soldiers talked about trivial things; how it was almost unbearably cold, a soldier or two falling ill, or a barrel of ale being discovered in the basement of a small tavern in Trenton that the soldiers managed to sneak into their tents. It was something Alexander could focus on, due to his boredom within solitary confinement. 

However, the voices of the soldiers today seemed rushed. Alexander's ears strained to hear them. 

_ "Hey! They captured two rebels earlier!" _

_ "Really?" _

_ "The interrogation is happening right now." _

_ "Finally, I was beginning to lose hope after the second scrimmage outside of the city." _

Alexander's blood ran cold at the soldiers words. Who had they captured? 

The rest of the day was uneventful. He sat waiting for more news from the conversations around his tent, but nothing came that he could hear clearly. Washington had been eerily silent for most of the day, due to either sitting at his desk, or from simple absence. Even if the general was chained to his desk, he could hear the very faint scribble of a quill late into the night, or his voice murmuring to his aide-de-camp, who in turn would etch the ink onto the parchment. 

Today though; silence. 

Suddenly, a soldier came up to his tent. It was well past sundown by that point, and Alexander found himself confused, for the soldier that let him have his dinner and bathroom break had come and gone hours ago. Alexander was facing away from the entrance of the tent, laying down in a patch of dirt that had become so flat it had started to erode into a dip in the Earth. 

The soldier up and grabbed Alex by the bounds on his hands, shoving him to his feet. They hurt from lack of use, but before he could process what was happening, he was escorted out of his tent and then held in front of the largest tent in camp; the general's. 

"Your excellency," the soldier said in a clipped voice. A quiet but clear voice rang through the flaps. 

"Enter." 

Alex was shoved into the tent, then brought to a chair so he could sit. Before the soldier left, he made sure the bonds on his hands were tight, removed the gag in his mouth, and took some extra rope set aside by the desk, tying it to Alexander's legs. There truly was no escape route now. 

"You're dismissed." Washington practically demanded. The soldier rushed out in a hurry, making his leave rushed and almost tripped on his way out. 

He moved his jaw around slightly, the feeling of the gag still imprinted on his face. 

He looked up at Washington. This was the first time he could properly see the man's face and body; the darkness of the first night did almost nothing to expose the true nature of the leader in the revolution. 

His jaw was quite defined, as well as his increasing wrinkles. The uniform he wore was clean, pressed new and cleaned to perfection, no doubt by women who worked on the camp. His stature was more relaxed than he expected; leaning towards one side with his thighs spread open under the desk, George Washington looked relaxed and comfortable in his own space. 

"What do you want with me?" Alex decided to ask first, not wanting to waste more time under the generals gaze. His cold dip in the ground seemed more enjoyable at that moment. 

"You aren't allowed to speak unless addressed." Washington spoke simply, standing out of his chair and making his way to Alexander. 

"You aren't my general, I don't have to-" 

His voice cut off from the immense pain in his right cheek. 

His head was slashed to the left, the pain spreading from his cheek to the rest of his face. Alexander's eyes shut tightly, wincing from the pain. He tried to struggle in his bonds, but no matter how much he tried to viciously rip them from his hands and feet, they stayed put. 

His eyes flashed open, hair falling from his ribbon holding his locks back. Alex straightened himself out to stare the commander in the face, who looked furious. With no words left to speak, Washington walked behind his desk and returned to sit. 

"You will _ speak _ ," his voice full of malice, "when you are _ addressed _."

Alexander decided it was a good time to shut his mouth. 

"Good boy." He stated simply, and Alex felt hot all over for seemingly no cause; even though he would never admit the real reason.

"I assume you have heard word around the camp of the capture between the two redcoats." It was a statement that Alex could only nod to, afraid to say another word. 

"Would you like to know what they told me?" The commander asked, in a bone shivering tone. Alex again, only nodded. 

"_ Speak _ when your commander asks you a question, boy." 

"Yes." He said quietly, slightly hanging his head. He was afraid of another slap, however resistant his personality might have been. Being commanded like this made him shake, and he started to feel his fingers clamp up from tension. 

"Yes, _ sir _." Washington said annoyingly. "You will learn in time." 

Alexander had no response. 

"So. The redcoats gave us some critical information." Washingtom pulled out a piece of parchment from the seemingly endless piles on his desk, the neat ink calligraphy could be seen through the document. 

Washington cleared his voice as he began to scour the paper. 

"Cornwallis plans to join his forces with Grant in Princeton, due to the recent victory in this wretched town you took for yourselves." 

The information stunned Alexander. Cornwallis was in New York, was he not? Why would he make the long journey to reunite in Princeton? Alex knew the soldiers of the continental army were exhausted; it would be the perfect time to strike. Did Grant not have enough support in Princeton? He had overheard Rall talking about reinforcements for Trenton, despite the current numbers the Hessians held.

"By the way your face is contorted, I assume you are also perplexed as well." Washington continued. He tossed the parchment off to the side with little care, making it strikingly obvious that the information meant little to him. 

"Unfortunately, I cannot share my battle plans with you, in case you do end up escaping my grasp." Washington laughed. 

"You won't share it with me because you have absolutely no idea what to do with your army." 

As soon as it flew out of his mouth, Alexander regretted ever speaking to begin with. He closed his eyes tightly and looked down, preparing for another strike to his face. However, when he did not hear the movement of the chair the general sat in, he slowly opened his eyes to see the face of Washington. His mouth was slightly parted, eyes calculating and currently burning into Alex's face. 

"You'd be correct." 

It was Alexander's turn to be surprised. It was a context guess, let alone be correct. 

"You aren't going to strike me?" 

Washington's eyes suddenly went dark. 

"Believe me Hamilton, I contemplated it. Your lack of respect to _ your new commander _ is very aggravating, I must admit." 

Alexander gritted his teeth. The anger started to return, but before he could retort, Washington continued to speak. 

"What was your role within the British army?" 

It was an unexpected question, and Alexander had a hard time sorting out his thoughts to articulate them into words. 

"Well, my boy?" 

Washington was certainly not helping. 

"I was a simple messenger sent to Trenton." He started. "Before that I was part of a small militia stationed in Albany. I didn't do much." 

Alexander's voice was strained from embarrassment, and his hands were beginning to sweat despite the coldness of the chilly air. 

"Then explain to me how you could tell I was lying by omission?" Washington asked. 

Alexander could only shrug. The air had turned less hostile ever since Alexander had corrected the general, the air fizzling away the tension. 

"I'm not sure. Something seemed off. Your best option would be to evacuate. The forces that Grant has are already enough to outnumber yours, let alone the reinforcements Cornwallis is fetching from New York. Digging in defensive positions is ill advised." Alexander's mind started to run at an unbearable pace, moving faster than his lips. 

"You do have a point." Washington decided to reply, his hand reaching up to pick at his mouth. 

"Why are you discussing this with me?" Alex asked in confusion. 

"This army needs more men like you." 

Alexander scoffed, and began to laugh. The bonds on his hands started to strain, as well as the bonds on his legs.

By the time he quieted, the commander had his eyes wide as he gazed at the younger man in front of him. 

"Absolutely not, no, I refuse to switch sides." Alexander could hardly keep his laughter from subsiding, and when he looked up at Washington, darkness was enveloped in the general's eyes.

Alexander shut up completely as Washington stood up, making his way to him in the chair. Instantly, Alexander felt his hair being yanked backwards, his neck craning towards the ceiling of the tent. It _ hurt _, but now he was met face to face with the leader of the revolution. 

"You _ will _ join our side," Washington threatened, "and you _ will _ fight for us." 

Alexander huffed out a sound of protest. Washington's eyes darkened. 

"_ Then I will convince you _." 

-

Tilghman escorted Hamilton out after he had lost composure. George was not too sure how long he would be able to last much longer around the presence of the Crown scum. 

An intriguing past, to be sure. George was curious, however tempered around the young man, aged somewhere between eighteen and twenty years to his knowledge. With the new information about his mind wasn't put to use when he was in the British forces, George intended to use that mind in favor of the continental army. He was a determined young lad, and he was in desperate need of young, dedicated men within his forces. However, the lack of respect will have to be corrected. Hamilton will change sides, and if George couldn't do it diplomatically, then he will have to try by force, which he had attempted and it was only partially successful. The boot print was faintly still outlined on the boy's face. It made George shiver with an emotion he could not decipher.

"Tilghman!" George called out, and glanced up at his aide-de-camp rushing into his tent. He stood at attention, awaiting orders. 

"Call a meeting with the officers, and have them meet me in the tavern on Queens street. There are battle plans to discuss. Have them acquaint with me there immediately." He stated calmly, gathering the most essential parchments on his desk, fresh parchment papers, ink and quill, as well as a small map on the corner table. "You will also join me once you rally the officers." 

Tilghman only nodded, making his way out of the tent. 

It was late, given, but the officers were still awake due to the preparation of another attack rumored, word spreading through the camp like a full mist stretching over a valley. 

-

The candles flickered in the tavern as the many officers argued about what to do next. 

"We should dig deep into a defense strategy; we can hold on to this city for just a while longer." One officer said. 

"No! This city is practically ruined, we took it in our name, what's the point of defending it?" Another one asked.

"Men, we need to join with Cadwalader at Crosswicks and Mifflin at Bordentown, continuing an escape into Pennsylvania."

"Coward!" One shouted. "We do _ not _ run from this!"

George pressed a finger into his left temple, his head pounding from the arguments. 

"The best strategy, like I mentioned earlier, is a _ defensive post- _" 

"Men!" George interrupted the shouting with his own, booming voice, effectively silencing the officers. Greene gave a side brow look at Knox, who returned the gesture. They had not seen the general so aggravated in quite some time. 

"We are _ not _ taking the defensive. We are outnumbered, _ astronomically _; our army would be forced to surrender. We must make our way towards Princeton." 

"And what of our force now?" Knox spoke up. "The newfound artillery we have captured from the surrender can only last us so long."

George glanced down at the map. 

"Send in Doctor Rush."

"Your Excellency?" Colonel Reed spoke up. "He knows nothing of battle!" 

"_ Send in Doctor Rush _!" George was on his last thread. He needed an unbiased opinion, and knowing that Rush was right outside the door soothed his thoughts. 

Without question, Tilghman rushed out and grabbed the doctor, quickly bringing him into the room. 

"Your Excellency, sir." He slightly bowed his head, the room silent to hear what he had to say.

"I would appreciate your council on the current predicament." 

"Sir," Rush started, "I am not qualified to give military advice." 

George sighed and leaned forward onto the table, his shoulders starting to strain. 

"Grant and Cornwallis are joining forces in Princeton. We are discussing fleeing to Pennsylvania, bringing in forces from Princeton to make an offensive strategy play, or digging in the defensive to hold the city of Trenton." George explained calmly. "This is the most important decision and it could decide our fate." 

"Sir, I am still reluctant to give my opinion." The officers around the table snickered. 

"Speak freely, doctor." George insisted. He needed the unbiased party, unlike the officers around him who had their own personal agenda to follow for their troops. 

Doctor Rush took a large breath in, looking at the most recent map at the table. 

"All the Philadelphia militia would be very happy in being under your immediate command, and will instantly obey any summons to join the forces here in Trenton. I suggest we make an offensive attack." 

Some of the officers breathed out a sigh of relief; implying that most of them agreed. A scoff was heard, most likely from Reed. George paid no mind. 

He nodded towards the doctor, and the other officers agreed with the attack plan. It was a compromise. 

"A thousand men have already marched towards Maidenhead, and they will trench into the ground below Five Mile Run, and alarm posts at Eight Mile run. We will hold the high ground above the south bank." George pointed to the locations on the map, each officer staring intently at the parchment. 

"The artillery should be focused on defending the bridge by Mill Hill," Knox spoke up. "The others are to be stationed guarding fords up and down the creek." 

George contemplated the advice of his artillery general, and nodded. Grabbing a piece of parchment, his ink and his newly sharpened quill, he started to write out orders for Cadwalader and Mifflin, commanding them to arrive by five o'clock in the morning, the latest six. 'Bring your baggage.' He wrote out. 

Once printed and dried, he called on Rush to deliver the order, and George knew that he would be gone within the hour. 

After another long debate on a change of headquarters, George dismissed all of the officers, filing out of the room slowly. Tilghman started to blow out the candles, leaving George to his thoughts. 

The reinforcements would arrive by morning. They _ needed _ to arrive by morning. 

He reached for the extra parchment, rolled up the maps, grabbed his ink and quill, and made his way back to his tent. The sentries greeted him with a solute, and he nodded their way, trying to scamper his way into his tent once again. 

A candle was lit by the time he walked through the flaps, and the slight warmth soothed his senses as he relaxed his tense shoulders. There was sure to be an attack by morning, so dropping his documents off, he walked back out into the camp, to the makeshift stables holding the officers horses. In the corner, he saw his own, and smiled to himself. 

Next to the stables were some leftover carrots and sugar cubes bought from Philadelphia, with the little money that George owned for himself. 

He reached into the leather pouch and got out three sugar cubes as well as two carrots, silently tucking them into his pockets so the other horses would not see. 

As he reached the final slot, Nelson let out a grunt, getting excited to see his rider.

George strolled up to his stallion, lightly petting his nose before secretly holding up a sugar cube. Nelson neighed, slightly stomping his fight foot. 

"Shhh, boy. Can't be too loud." George murmured. His horse quieted, and ate with humble as George stroked his mane. He fed him a carrot, and got to thinking. 

An attack was imminent. Reed had informed him of what his foray had relayed to him; time was precious, the redcoats would attack within hours. He had that amount of time to prepare his forces, who were currently asleep in their tents, or were staying up, anxious of the battle to come. 

The spies had concluded that the attack would be in the forefront of Trenton, the British troops outnumbering theirs. The amount of anxiety would have been higher for George, if he had not taken a moment to himself to see his most valuable horse. Nelson was never skittish over gun and cannon fire, which he had appreciated ever since the gifting of the horse had fallen into his hands. 

He loved his stallion, just as much as he loved his wife, who he hasn't written to in some time. 

Martha Washington was currently at home, in Mount Vernon, overseeing his property and exports. She had recently been only writing to him about his merchandise, and she has done nothing to return his affections. He had assumed she had taken up another lover, and George was surprisingly not as upset as the thought might provoke. They had discussed a somewhat open marriage between them, since most of the technicalities of the marriage was purely for profit on the account of both parties. 

However, he had not expected Martha to go through with the plan on her own. In fact, she joked to him in private how he would take up a mistress in the war, and she would gently squeeze his arm (she was too short to squeeze his shoulder) and smile. George had not seriously considered having another warming his bed; the battles were too intense and he was often more busy than Martha. He had assumed she was happy, and he decided to write to her later. 

Nelson grunted due to George's lack of feeding him, the horse knowing that there was more hidden in his coat pocket. His trialing of thoughts had distracted him. George laughed to himself, realizing his mistake. How had he gone from anxiety over the impending battle to his lovely wife. 

As he fed Nelson the last carrot, he stroked the horse's mane once more, placing a tender kiss on the nose. His stallion hummed, and he finally bid farewell until morning. The other horses had not even noticed his presence. 

-

Alexander woke up from his afternoon nap with the sounds of gunshots and screams.

He awoke with a start, jerking and almost hitting his thigh on the pole holding his tent up. It reminded him of a surprise ambush when he had awoken in a similar way when Alexander was still within the British garrison. Horse hooves could be heard pounding nearby, however the gunshots were significantly louder. The camp must have evacuated all of the troops into the center of Trenton, which was west of the camp. Alexander couldn't get a good look at the sun from the confines of his tent. 

His head started to spin as he heard the general's voice. 

"Advance, men!" He called out, assuming another wave of soldiers passing by. The boots can he heard sloshing through the mud from the previous days rain. His tent was relatively dry, however the water had pooled a bit into his divot in the ground. He had located himself in a different patch, even though it felt cold and unfamiliar. Due to being in captivity, he had learned to enjoy the simple pleasures; such as taking a piss beside a tree, even though supervised, and slipping into his divot in the soil. 

He even missed a two finger dip of brandy. Oh, how Alexander missed alcohol with his British friends. 

Another round of bullets could be heard. Alexander jerked at the surprise once more, still not used to battle. He had only been in one, and it was a surprise ambush by a small militia. He had been so eager to fight, and now, all Alexander could do was listen to the sounds of battle with his hands bound as well as his legs. How greatly they itched to run. 

Suddenly, the tent flap opened to reveal a redcoat soldier. Alexander struggled, but breathed a sigh of relief when the man started to undo the mouth gag. 

"Cut me free, you fool!" Alexander yelled at the man, and he grunted but obliged to the order. 

"Cornwallis had heard that the old fox had captured you." The soldier said, taking out a small blade and began with Alexander's feet. 

"The old fox?" 

"Washington."

The soldier finally cut his legs free, and then his hands. He hauled Alexander up, but as soon as the soldier let go, he face planted into the dirt of the tent, not being able to use his legs properly. 

"Bloody christ, Hamilton." The soldier lifted him up again, and once Alexander regained control, they started making their way as fast as they could outside of Trenton. 

"Name?" Alexander asked, as loud as he could over the impending gunfire. 

"Private Paxton." He replied simply, slinging Alexander's arm over his shoulder and hauling him along. They made it to the edge of camp, in the direction of Princeton. 

"I apologize I cannot run." He spoke, trying not to trip over his own feet. Paxton only nodded, continuing to make their way. 

"The plan was to get you freed, Cornwallis wanted to talk to you about-" 

Paxton was cut off by a nearby gun shot. The next thing Alexander saw was the dirt in his face from falling on dead weight. He quickly shot up, looking at Paxton on his left. He was also face down in the soil, his back barely showing the blood stains from the bullet wound. He groaned, trying to move, however the pain must have been too much, because Alexander saw Paxton give up and slouched back onto the ground. 

Alexander turned to the location of the bullet, seeing a continental army man rushing towards him. He felt his eyes grow wide as he saw the soldier ran faster and faster, bringing out a blade. 

He tried his best to use his arms and legs, but they felt like jelly as he crawled his best away from the soldier. 

Alexander screamed when the soldier caught up to him with the blade, and he cried out in pain as he felt the knife sink deep into his left calf. It hurt more than anything Alexander had ever felt before in his life, and he tasted blood in his mouth from biting his tongue. His teeth were covered in dirt as his mouth fell into the soil. 

The last thing Alexander heard before he slipped into unconsciousness was the soldier yelling out to someone else, telling him they've caught the prisoner. 

Was that who he was now?

-

George rode through the ranks, barking orders as loud as he could. If he had his voice by morning, he would pray and thank the one and only God for the blessed luck he would receive. 

But for now, as he rode through the ranks to make sure everyone was following their officers orders, his voice must strain to accomplish a common goal; defend the city of Trenton. Everything seemed to go accordingly, despite the piles of bodies around the commander. The air stank of shit, gunpowder and blood, the distinct yet familiar smell of iron filling George's nostrils. There will have to be letters to write to many families late into the night; something George was not fond of doing this late into the war. 

"Give me some of Mercer's men!" He bellowed towards the nearest soldier. "We need to defend the bridge!" 

The soldier ran right away, almost stumbling over a body of his fellow men. George rode to the west railing of the bridge, gazing past the front lines of redcoats. He saw Cornwallis, a mere speck in the distance, looking through a spyglass at his own ranks. He scowled, hoping the man could see it. 

Two generals, one battle. 

George scoffed to himself; like anyone would hear it with the rough gunfire. They needed to defend the main bridge into Trenton, even though some of the British ranks have already infiltrated the city from crossing the creek. Most men did not have the urge to get their uniforms dirty, so instead they pressed on the bridge, where most of George's men were concentrated. 

A sudden wave of redcoat mercenaries charged forward on the bridge, crossing with field guns. 

"Fire!" George yelled, seeing his own men stand resilient as the redcoats crossed, however they had only made it halfway before stopping. 

"Mercer's men have arrived!" One of the soldiers shouted, and Washington maneuvered Nelson to look towards the city of Trenton, where multiple soldiers wearing mostly rags stained blue came running, guns loaded and in hand. He stood over the men as he watched them fall into the ranks, continuing to shoot at the soldiers halfway across the bridge. 

Gunfire was exchanged fiercely. George held his breath as he watched, occasionally feeling bullets wizz past his ears. He backed up Nelson, who stood high on a small hill near the bridge. The bullets were too close to his head for George's liking. 

The redcoats eventually receded after some time, leaving behind confused comrades and dozens of dead bodies along the bridge. George held his head up high, feeling pride deep within his chest. Some of his own men ran forward, taking the live redcoats in their hands and bounding them. They have now been captured. 

His men started to reload their muskets once they arrived back at the creek bed, desperately shoving gunpowder into the barrels and aiming to take fire once more.

A new wave of the British rushed to the bridge, bringing more artillery. Gunshots started to sound as frequent as the scraping of a quill against a fresh parchment, or a drinking song deep inside of a tavern at the dead of night. It wasn't so far to say that it sounded like music to George's ears. 

The scrimmage was quicker than the last one, British men finally retreating towards Cornwallis after a few short minutes. 

When George heard the whole army shout, he smiled, proud of what he had accomplished. He ordered them to quickly fall back, taking as much ammunition as the men could fit into their coat pockets. The men continued to cheer on the way back to Trenton. 

Upon arrival, however, the British were still filing through the streets. 

"Where is Knox!" George called out to his soldiers, and just as the last word left his mouth, he heard hoof beats next to him. Greene was on his right in a matter of seconds, Knox following closely behind with cannons in his wake. 

He rode to Knox, and ordered the officer of artillery to stride the cannons up through the streets. 

"Blow them all to hell!" He yelled, and with a nod, Knox rode forward and signaled his men to follow. 

"Your Excellency!" A soldier called out to George, who was still mounted on Nelson. 

"What is it?" He grunted, eager to follow Knox into the battle within the streets of Trenton. His legs were starting to ache from being on Nelson all morning and the better part of the afternoon, and now that nightfall was imminent, George was determined to drive the British forces out of the city before sundown.

"Hamilton has made an attempt to escape." The soldier called up to George on his mount. "A redcoat attempted to free him." 

The general felt his blood run cold within his body. Without a second question, he ordered the soldier to take him to where Hamilton was found, his heart suddenly beating fast. George was known for keeping a calm demeanor during battle, however now knowing that Hamilton was attempted to be brought back to Cornwallis, it had spiked his anxiety. 

What would Cornwallis need from a small infantry man from Albany? And how had the opposing general found out of Hamilton's capture? 

George rode to a small creek where the redcoat laid dead in the grass. They were heading in the direction of Princeton, hoping to cross the creek into enemy lines so no other man from George's regiment could see them advance back to Cornwallis. 

George could assess that Hamilton was still breathing, but didn't notice the knife sticking out of his calf at first. When he did, he turned to the soldier. 

"Did you do this?" He asked, dismounting Nelson and patted him to let the stallion know to stay in the same spot. 

"Yes, your Excellency." 

George lost his temper. 

"_ What _ did you do?" He yelled, thankful no other man was around to hear them at the time. 

"He was trying to crawl away-" 

"_ So you stabbed him _?" George bellowed, turning towards Hamilton. "You could have killed him!" 

The soldier stayed silent as the general marched over to Hamilton's seemingly lifeless body, hoisting the boy up on his shoulder like a sack of flour, however much carefully; attempting not to move the knife around. Hamilton was a light young man, George noted to himself. 

"Find Doctor Rush, _ now _, soldier." He commanded, leaving the redcoat fighter behind. They could clean up the bodies left by ill fate later. 

Marching to Nelson, he grabbed the reins and led him to the stables nearby. Most of the horses were gone, due to officers mounting them to battle. The main battle had been done, and George was now only waiting on the British evacuation of Trenton. 

After tying up his horse, he walked quickly to his own tent, with the makeshift desk empty of all essential documents. He laid Hamilton down off of his shoulder and spread him across the desk. The boy was short enough to only have his calves hang off the desk, which was perfect for when Rush came to work on Hamilton. George sighed, the weight finally off of his right side. 

Doctor Rush came into the tent, and effectively took a moment to take in the sight before him. 

"You want me to save a redcoat, your Excellency?" He asked in confusion. George only sighed. 

"Cornwallis had ordered for Hamilton to return to the British forces for an unknown reason. We could use him as a bargaining tool later on." George glanced back at the unconscious boy. "I also feel like we need him. He has a smart mind. We have been keeping him hostage since we captured the Hessians." 

Rush only moved past George to get a good look at the wound. 

"Go, your men need you. Let me work, sir." He explained formally. George nodded and dismissed himself from the tent, making his way out of camp on foot to Trenton. 

Knox ended up meeting them halfway, just on the outskirts of the city. 

"What happened?" George demanded, seeing the red face of the artillery officer. Greene was not far behind, still mounted on his horse; Knox was on foot. 

"Cornwallis and Grant are at a village just outside of Trenton, out of the range of our guns. They have fled, for now, your Excellency." He stated with a small smile, glancing back at the marching men who were making their way back to camp. Greene strode to stand next to the two men, with an even bigger smirk spread across his face. He dismounted with a slight spring in his step as he landed on the ground. 

"Great job, men. Order your troops to rest back at camp near Assunpink Creek where we have relocated. In the meantime, we shall convene a war council within St. Clair's tent. We have much to discuss." George ordered, and with a curt nod towards both men, he began to walk back in the direction of his tent. "We have the high ground over the British men, we cannot hold it for long." 

"Sir, with respect, why can't we meet in your tent? It is much more spacious." Knox asked. 

"It is being occupied at the moment." George called back, waving a hand of dismissal. Greene and Knox shared a suggestive look that the general had seen in the corner of his eye. 

Finally making it back to his quarters, he opened the flaps to see Doctor Rush slowly pulling out the knife, bandage in hand. 

"Is there a way I can help, doctor?" George asked, walking towards Hamilton still laid across the desk. 

"Your Excellency. I'm afraid there isn't much you could do to assist me." The blade was pulled out carefully, and set aside. "The knife hit no bone, and no major muscle damage can be done as far as I could see. Minimal bleeding, though I am afraid of his pain tolerance. A normal foot soldier would have kept on walking, let alone the boy fell into unconscious." 

George could only nod as he looked at the sleeping face of Hamilton. His long hair was very obviously falling out of his ribbon. It was still messed up from when George had manhandled the boy's head into his grip; the satisfying feeling of feeling the head of hair between his fingers maddened him. 

His breathing was shallow, but George believed in Doctor Rush to help heal the boy. 

"I'll keep the dressing clean as often as I can with the time I have left after keeping focus on the other wounded soldiers." The doctor said as he pulled out a clean piece of wet cloth, most likely soaked in herbs. "I can make him drink herbs that will both keep him unconscious and alive for the next couple days, if you'd like, your Excellency." 

"Is it necessary?" George asked, looking at Rush. 

"To prevent escape when we evacuate camp, I would count on it so, sir." 

George nodded. 

"Do it. Tend to the other soldiers when you are finished here. I have a meeting to attend." 

Rush only nodded as George left the confines of his quarters, reluctantly squashing an urge to glance back at Hamilton as he opened the flaps. 

With the sun rapidly changing, the sky began to turn to navy, with orange streaks of the fading light spreading across the sky. It was a cloudless day, which George was thankful for, due to the bitter cold that was now beginning to present itself with the setting sun. 

St. Clair's tent was at the other side of camp, and as George passed by all the resting soldiers, his heart squeezed in his chest. 

Men nursing arms or legs from wounds were littered everywhere, almost annoyingly. Men groaned as they sat next to the beginnings of fires outside of barrack tents, filling wooden cups with the last of the ale. He could smell it; George knew the smell of cheap ale quite well. 

If he could change his mind about being commander in chief of the new army, he would have, instead enlisting within the ranks. 

As George walked past the soldiers, few paid mind to the general walking through their ranks. Most men were too exhausted or too distracted to look up at the large body passing through them, but for the men who did look up, they gave George a quick nod, some even a salute, and the general always returned it. 

Finally reaching the location of St. Clair's quarters, he stopped before the flaps of the tent. He took a deep breath in, preparing to put on the facade that he knew what he was doing. Currently, George had no indication on what to do next with his army.

Pushing himself past the entrance, George looked up to see all the officers already there. Knox, Greene, Reed, Sullivan, Mercer, Cadwalader, along with St. Clair and Mifflen were all standing around a table. The candles were already lit, slightly flickering over the new wax that had been placed that evening. Maps were scrawled all over the desk; a smaller one than George had, however just as useful. 

"Your Excellency, sir." They all said in unison. 

"Welcome, men, to my humble abode." St. Claire spoke, making the men laugh. It was good to be lighthearted in such dire times, George thought. 

"Reports." George only said, trying to stifle a smile. 

"Right, sir." Knox started. "We still have plenty of artillery to last us a week if we dig in on the defensive." 

"My men are tired, sir," Mercer went next. "They need time to recoup." 

"My troops suffered less casualties than any other brigade," Greene stated, "thanks to the reinforcements that Cadwalader had sent. I appreciate you for assisting, sir." 

The rest of the officers listed how their own troops were doing, along with casualties. 

"Do we have a report on the British forces?" George asked, writing down each number with a spare parchment, ink and quill that Greene had provided. 

"According to the body count out in the field, it would be a significant number larger than ours." Reed spoke. George wrote down the approximate numbers from the other officers, quickly scribbling with the quill since Tilghman was nowhere to be found at the moment. 

"I'm afraid the British will push us towards the cold banks of the lower Delaware." Greene voiced his opinion as George set the parchment aside. 

George didn't reply. His mind was occupied by the injuries of his men, by the injury of Hamilton, and what could Cornwallis possibly want with the boy. 

"Hamilton was given an opportunity to escape." 

Soon, every officer was talking at once. Some asked who Hamilton even was, others questioning George's ability to keep the redcoat hostage, and the final few debating on why he had attempted to escape in the first place. 

"Men!" George interrupted, and mutters of apology can be heard. "Cornwallis gave a direct order to have him back. The general wants something to do with the boy." 

"Sir, why?" Greene asked. 

"I am not sure. The only information I extracted from my short conversation with the soldier was how he was a light infantryman stationed in Albany before getting ordered from Howe to deliver a message to the Hessians." George quickly explained, hearing the words out loud for the first time. Many officers were stunned at the accusation. Why would Cornwallis want Hamilton back? He was a mere foot soldier, a messenger man. 

"We need to keep him. Alive." George murmured. More to himself rather than the men around him. 

"Sir, we need to move on to more important matters." Reed spoke up. The general felt the inner temper inside him snarl. Alexander Hamilton was important, if not the most vital part of the current war time. The army needed him alive. 

_ I need him alive _, George thought to himself. 

"We can't attack the British outright. They're all focused to the west. With more artillery than we have." Knox started. 

Suddenly, George had an idea. 

"What is to the east of Princeton?"

Silence ensued for a stretch of time. Shuffling of parchment could be heard from Reed, who had been in charge of the scouts and spies within Princeton. 

"There is an unguarded road to the east. They nicknamed it Quaker Road in Princeton." Reed was reading off of the parchment now, paraphrasing the words neatly scrawled from his spies. "If we leave now, we can make it to Princeton by morning and take the city. All the British forces are concentrated in the west." 

"It truly would be a beautiful strategy. Turning left of the enemy in the night." St. Clair said. The officers all around them nodded, something being all their eyes gleaming in the candlelight. 

_ This could work _ . George thought. _ This has to work. _

"Call upon your men." The general started, leaning up and off the table. He handed reports to Knox, and faced his officers once again. "Wrap the wagons in cloth. Order them to move with all the secrecy and stillness they can muster. We ride as soon as the camp is ready to evacuate." 

"Sir, the troops are tired and-" 

"We do not have time!" George retorted. "Wake them up!" 

The officers saluted, remaining quiet as George walked out of the tent first. It seemed like he wouldn't get a wink of sleep tonight.

-

George walked Nelson as quietly as he could through the night. He ordered the men to speak at hushed whispers throughout the ride, being as silent as possible. 

It was cooler tonight by at least twenty degrees. A sudden cold front had shifted towards the army in the evening, causing the temperature drop. Thankfully, the mud within the ground had hardened into ice, which made it twice as fast to travel. The downside, George worried, was the lack of shoes among the ranks; his men could die of frostbite before the morning began to approach. 

Yet he rode with pride, praying to His holiness that they would make it to at least Princeton. It would be a major victory if they could take the town. 

Suddenly, a horse called out behind him, causing Washington to turn with an angry look on his face, yet curious. 

Another horse had slipped on the ice, due to the lack of new horseshoes the regiment had used up before the battle of Trenton. George sighed into his palm, making a note to write a letter to Congress for new horse shoes. 

They rode deep into the night, covering nine miles in six hours by George's timekeep. 

A fork in the road emerged in front of the column, the men in front of George suddenly halting the movement of the whole brigade. 

"Sir," Greene whispered next to him, also mounted next to Nelson. His piercing blue eyes practically shone in the very early morning, the mood shimmering off of the trees. 

"Yes?" 

"I suggest we break rank." It was a simple suggestion which allowed Washington's mind to spin throughout the cloudy fog of sleep. 

"Send Sullivan with the larger force to Saw Mill Road. They can flank the village from the South." George looked around at the restless men. "Send your own regiment to veer north, and prepare for a counterattack from Trenton. Cornwallis must know we have left ground by now." 

Greene saluted and rode forward, whispering orders to the men and starting to separate from the fork in the road. George stood right at the split, supervising the divide. The general saw bottles of rum being passed around, a pinch of gunpowder sprinkled into the mix. It woke all the soldiers right up, and all the men started to move faster through the frost of morning.

Soon, the wagon carrying Hamilton passed by George, dragged by horses into Sullivan's ranks. It was to continue moving forward instead of the main battle, since it contained the rest of the food, as well as the redcoat resting on a makeshift cot. 

He watched the wagon wheel away slowly, and it almost physically hurt to see Hamilton being towed away from him. George sighed and followed the wagon, joining Sullivan's forces. The men that Greene commanded knew what they were doing, he didn't need to supervise the smaller force.

Nelson made his way towards the wagon, shortly following behind. George could see inside the flaps of the wooden box, and saw Hamilton resting, his breathing still being able to he seen. The general let out a breath of relief; he was still alive, _ I need him alive. _

As he continued to march down the road, George's thoughts wandered. He kept repeating that phrase in his head. 

_ I need him alive. _

Why did George need him alive? The simple answer, he thought, was to use as a bargaining power over the British. Cornwallis needed the boy, but so did George. He needed his mind, his wit, however low his pain tolerance might be. If Hamilton did decide to finally side with him, maybe he could give the boy an administrative job. Something to keep him out of battle. 

_ I need him alive. _

George looked down at Nelson, the horse patiently walking slowly behind the wagon. He stroked his stallion's mane, soothing him as the sun began to break the horizon. Frost coated every surface; the barren trees shone in the morning light and the bushes were painted with a thin sheet of white. The ground had a thin layer of snow laying atop it, beginning to glitter with the newfound light. It would have been a peaceful morning to George, forgetting the war was an imminent threat along with the pressures of being the commander in chief. It all seemed to fizzle away as he breathed in the bitter air. 

Then, a slip of a soldier on the icy ground broke him of his trance. George only shook his head, questioning his sanity on why he had to lead _ these _men into battle, instead of men who were well put together. 

The price of freedom, he supposed. 

The eire sound of horses hooves clicking against the icy ground and the footsteps of his men almost made the morning seem too quiet for George. 

Something wasn't right. 

Suddenly, George could hear the distant sounds of stronger hooves from stronger horses, and the distinct sound of running redcoats. By now, Greene would be closing in on Worth's Mill. 

George whipped out his spyglass, looking in the direction of the mill, studying the road where the sound of an incoming battalion running on the ground. He panicked slightly, and rode past the wagon holding Alexander to the messenger group up in front of the column. 

"Ride to Greene. You must warn him of an incoming British brigade." He told a boy who couldn't have been older than eighteen. 

"Yes, your Excellency." The boy nodded and ran off, George calling out after him. 

"Ride fast!" 

Sullivan raised his eyebrows in questioning. 

"Where is Mercer?" George asked the officer, who only pointed ahead. The general rode forward, galloping Nelson past more soldiers until he reached Mercer, who greeted him with a standard salute. 

"Peel off the column, to the north." George said, almost out of breath but maintaining a calm facade. "Ride to Saw Mill with your command and intercept the incoming patrollers before they reach Princeton." 

Mercer nodded, before calling his men and galloping his horse ahead. His men followed, doing their best to stay in line while running to catch up to their officer. Some of them rallied, but were quickly silenced by their fellow men, attempting to keep their location a secret. 

George stood off to the side of the narrow road, leaving room for the men to run. He looked onwards as Mercer continued to gallop away, and George steadfast, hoping that one day that will be him, leading the whole army into battle. 

He regrouped with Sullivan before the first shots were heard. 

"You sent Mercer for the patrols?" Sullivan asked, and George could only nod, praying that his men were okay and had the resilience to keep fighting. 

Minutes turned into half hour, and the sound of gunshots still rang in George's ear. Soon, some stragglers ran back into the column of Sullivan, and the general made the command to follow into the battle. 

Sullivan, George and the column marched forward about two hundred yards, finally making it to the scene of the battle. 

"Break off the wagons north. Send every available man to battle." George ordered, and Sullivan began listing off names to break formation. 

George galloped forward into the scrimmage, ordering a counter attack from Hand and Hitchcock with their New England brigade. 

"Parade with us, my brave fellows," George screamed out, "There is but a handful of the enemy, and we will have them directly!" 

George felt bullets wizz past him on both sides, hearing the whistle in his ears. He was feeling brave, at that moment, and as he looked back at the adjacent road, he caught a glimpse of Hamilton's wagon disappearing behind a thicket of trees. 

_ I need you alive. _

George's heart pounded in his ears as he continued to gallop throughout the ranks, encouraging his men to continue to fight. The amount of power he felt within his chest was the only driving force propelling him mounted on Nelson. 

The artillery stopped with an abrupt last gunshot, and George held his hand up high as he watched the redcoats flee into Princeton. His men hollard, running after them into the city. 

There wasn't much time left before the British had to surrender the town.


	2. Act Two, Scene One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so next update might be a while from now, I apologize in advance. I also apologize for the very very very slow burn but at the end of the chapter there is a surprise!

_Twice I turn my back on you_

_I fell flat on my face but didn't lose_

_Tell me where would I go_

_Tell me what led you on I'd love to know_

_\- [Twice, Little Dragon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TrpMncSZe-I)_

* * *

_January 7th, 1777 _

_ Morristown, New Jersey _

* * *

Alexander opened his sandy eyes, exposing them to the bitter cold for the first time. He immediately felt his leg pulsate with pain, causing him to groan. It hurt significantly less than when he had first gotten stabbed but still caused an uncomfortable ache within his calf. He glanced down at his clothes; a white undercoat along with a pair of brown trousers. On his left leg, the trousers were cuffed just below the knee, exposing another piece of cloth wrapped and his calf. No blood seeped through. 

His head was pounding. Was he still in Trenton? 

Attempting to sit up, Alexander noticed that he was no longer bound. Instead, he was lain upon an uncomfortable hay mattress, within a small room. It was quiet as a single candle lit the quarters. Alexander noticed how barren it was inside; a simple mattress on the floor, a small wooden table barely enough to hold a single piece of parchment, and the candle flickering on top of it. 

It was obvious that the army had relocated. 

Alexander swung his legs over the side of the hay bed, experimenting pressure on his left leg. It thankfully didn't increase the pain or let blood show itself through the makeshift bandage,so Alexander stood, weary of falling over. His hand gripped the wall as he made his way to the door of the room. 

"Dammit," he muttered, finding the door was latched shut. 

"Hey!" Alexander called out, hoping someone would hear him. He felt dizzy, and promptly made his way back to the bed. As he sat, he heard footsteps running away from outside of his room. He assumed there must have been a guard of some kind patrolling his room. 

Alex sighed as he laid down on his mattress. He sighed as he looked around. How had the army managed to sneak out of Trenton without waking him? Where was Cornwallis? Had he found out about the rebel's escape? 

Where was the leader of the revolution?

The door made a click, then slowly opened to reveal Washington. 

_ Ah, there he is, _Alexander thought to himself. 

The door shut behind the general, locking once more. His overcoat was disregarded somewhere else, revealing a similar white undercoat shirt. Some of the buttons were fraying. 

Before Alexander could think, he lunged forward, hurling his body at the commander. Washington stepped back, putting his hands behind him in a formal posture. As soon as Alexander put all his weight among his left leg, he suddenly fell to the ground, crying out in pain and weakness. 

Washington stayed silent as Alexander looked up from the floor. The general looked down upon him with tired eyes, the dark shadows beneath them somehow more prominent in the candlelight. 

"I see your leg obviously doesn't bother you." Washington drawled, taking a good look at the boy beneath him. Alexander gritted his teeth. 

"It hurts." He said simply, standing up slowly, however, he fell to his knees once again. 

"And your first thought was to, what?" Washington asked. "Kill the leader of the revolution with your fists?" 

Alexander laughed. "That wasn't intended. A strike, or two, would be nice I must admit." 

Washington only laughed. Pulling out his hands from behind him, the general reached down and offered a hand to Alexander. Confused, he hesitated to take it. 

"Go on, my boy." 

Alexander took the firm grip into his hand, allowing himself to slowly rise from the wooden floor. Washington guided him back to the hay bed, and let him sit. The general stood back at full attention, moving backwards to the other end of the room. Alexander shot him a confused look. 

"Just in case." 

"If I had wanted to strike you," Alexander nursed his leg, "then I would have done so when you offered your assistance." 

"That is not nearly the point, Alexander." 

Hearing his own name on Washington's lips made Alexander shiver. He had never thought he would love the general say his first name, but as he heard it for the first time, he could learn to get used to it. 

"Where are we?" He asked instead, sitting up against the wall to face Washington. 

"Morristown, New Jersey. We are settled in a tavern." 

"What of Princeton?" 

"We took hold of the city easily, but fled before the British could catch up with our forces." Washington started. "Cornwallis is expected to return to the British headquarters in the opposite direction, assuming we fled there. It was an unsafe gamble, with our tired troops resting throughout the city. The tavern we are in is my personal headquarters." 

"And this is my cell?" He asked Washington. The general took a long, lingering gaze at Alexander. His eyes were searching for something, however, when the general spoke once again it was obvious that he had found nothing in Alexander's features. 

"It is. A standard room." George reached towards the small table, dragging his finger on ot to inspect the wood. "If anything, I would be appreciative. I have my men sharing five to a room within the city, while you, a prisoner, have one all to yourself." 

"With nothing to do." 

"Yes." Washington responded. "With nothing to do." 

Alexander huffed. 

"Might as well shoot me." Washington didn't respond at first. His face looked to be one of fear in some way, contorted as if someone had informed him all his tobacco back at Mount Vernon had fell through and his funds were already low as it is. 

"You won't kill me." Alexander kept going. "You need me. You _ know _that Cornwallis wants me back within his ranks. You intend to use me." 

Once again, silence. Washington had changed his face to a look of shock. 

"Your mind precedes you." Was all the general could muster to say. 

"Some could testify to that, within the British ranks of course." Alexander smirked. He now had the general in his pocket. All he needed to do was adjust Washington's will, just the tiniest bit. Enough to make the general bend, but not break. 

"You won't plan to stop escaping anytime soon, are you?" Washington sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Alexander shook his head with a sly smirk on his face. 

"What will it take for you to at least attempt to be coordinating without being gagged and bound?" The general finally asked, giving in to Alexander's game. 

"I politely ask for books, _ your Excellency. _" He decided to respond, and Washington's eyes immediately darkened. Alexander had a brief thought of reconsidering his plan. The generals eyes scared him; suddenly making him feel small. Maybe bending the commander of the new world had been a mistake. 

"Two books." Washington's voice was deeper now too; slow and deliberate. "One of the scripture, and one of my choosing." 

Alexander gruffed. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

"An empty book, ink and a single quill to go along with it. So I may write." 

This time, the general was one to huff, leaning against the thin wooden walls of the room, mimicking Alexander's position. The only difference was Washington was standing. 

"No." 

Alexander threw his hands up in defeat. 

"Fine." 

Washington looked down at the floor. With the newfound quiet, Alexander could hear the snoring of the army men, and the distant groaning of soldiers who were injured. 

"The door will remain locked." 

Alexander groaned. 

"I expect nothing less of a prisoner." 

"Be glad you aren't locked up with the rest of the redcoats," Washington practically scolded, "they were put in actual cells with bars, confined ten a piece in one room." 

Alexander didn't respond. He got to thinking; if he got the books, then he could possibly request more. 

"I want my own chamber pot." He started. "And three full meals per sundown." 

Washington scoffed. 

"My men barely have enough for that much food. Why do you deserve something that they don't have, let alone fighting for the enemy?" 

"You are low on supplies. I assume you are to reside here for the winter?" Alexander asked, looking up at the general to meet his gaze. 

"Now what would give that away?" 

"Most armies tend not to fight in the winter," Alexander started. "Cornwallis only fought back because of your ignorance to storm Trenton during a snow. But you know that already, your Excellency." 

The general seemed to physically relax at the address. Alexander could do this, he could fake being cooperative, he could deceive the man who people so greatly worshiped. 

"You are telling me things I already have knowledge of, are you not?" Washington leaned off of the wall, taking slow and deliberate steps towards Alexander. He stopped halfway towards the bed. Alexander could only nod at the man. 

"Then why do you insist on speaking?" 

The general was toying with him. Alexander shut his mouth, no longer wanting to speak. If his plan were to work, he needed to cooperate with the general. The sooner he does, the more subtle freedom he gains, and the more power he shall hold within his now quivering hands. 

_ You will know what it is like to be betrayed. _

A knock on the door made Alexander jump slightly on his mattress. Washington had not moved, seemingly unphased as he continued to stare at Alexander. It made his heart beat faster; enough so that he could feel it in his ears. 

"Your Excellency, pardon my disrespect," a voice called out. "Greene suggests to make your way back to his quarters. There are matters of the utmost importance that require your attention." 

Washington only sighed as he made his way towards the small door. A simple knock ensued, unlocking the door and cracking it open. Before the general could step out, he turned towards Alexander. 

"I will have those books delivered to you by morning, along with an overcoat and sheets to accommodate the dreadful cold within this tavern." He started. "Your candle will be changed when need be. Do not waste our supply." 

Then, the door shut behind the leader of the revolution with a quick gust, blowing out the light of the candle. It plunged Alexander and his thoughts into darkness. 

-

George tossed the parchment on Greene's desk. 

"Are you sure this is correct?" He asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

"Yes, sir. All these numbers are recently updated an hour ago."

George sighed. He ran the numbers through his head as quickly as he could, trying to sort it all out. 

They now had around eight hundred men within the camp in Morristown. This was after the days hard battle in Princeton, the hard three day walk to Morristown, and enlistment papers expiring. What was left, George had hardly thought to look. Most of the men were relocated to the green park in the very center of the town, just buildings away from where George reside currently. Alexander was upstairs within the confines of his single room, with guards posted at the corners. 

He picked up another piece of parchment; their food supplies. It was significantly lower than the last time the numbers had been updated. 

"What is the meaning of this?" George asked in a grave tone towards Greene. "The madness." 

"It seems a wagon or two has not yet reached Morristown, sir." 

George shook his head. The most important aspect of winter quarters during a revolution was basics. Food, water, artillery for the summer. These most basic needs are what George prayed for, and yet they have come unanswered, for the documents had proven almost half of their supplies from Trenton had not been accounted for. 

"I need to write to congress. Place scouts on the borders of the town to insure they bring the missing supplies straight to camp if they turn up." George held his hand to his face. "If they see any wagon with supplies that is of British nature, siege them." 

Greene nodded and waited for the commander to leave the room so he may begin to follow orders. 

As he walked through the halls of the upstairs tavern, where the bedrooms were stationed, he quietly slipped past Alexander's until his feet reached his own quarters at the end of the hall. The meeting room was just across the small space, currently lit with torches. He figured in case of an emergency he would only need to rush across the hall and into the room with a very large table, a desk, his supply of parchment and ink, along with multiple sharpened quills. 

However, he instead turned right into his own personal room. A feather mattress, a smaller desk for his own personal correspondence, and multiple books within a crate. His first order of business needed to be to pick out the perfect book for Alexander. 

Since when had his brain altered the boy's name? He always used a strict last name basis, but recently he started to take fond of the boy's first name. 

As he opened the crate, the first book was a bound spine bible, with George's signature within the front cover. He carried it with him everywhere, along with reading the scripture every night when time permitted. With the travel to Morristown, the neatly kept book was stored away, unable to be opened. Underneath it was another copy, much less used. A spare in case George had such a need for it, and today was the time. 

As he gently placed the new bound spine to the side, he sifted throughout the other books within the crate. There were multiple filled journals of his that he had filled long ago, mostly of records of either Mount Vernon or the army. Lifting them and setting them aside, George smiled as he read the small leather bound book. 

_ Common Sense _by Thomas Paine. 

This was what Alexander would start out with; the eloquent words of Paine along with the scripture of the true God. Putting the journals back in their place, he retrieved the most recent of the lot, and closed the crate. 

He placed the two books to be given to Alexander to the side. It would be a quick read for the boy, being only a short book on Paine's behalf. However, George had a feeling he would finish the entire bible before even beginning to pick up anything related to the American cause. 

As he sat at his desk, George rubbed his eyes as the candle flickered into the late night. He grabbed a new piece of parchment lying around in one of the drawers and began to write. 

_ To the fateful council of Congress of the new America, _he started, and began to write. 

It was a lengthy correspondence. He had written late into the night of the missing supplies, the state of the army, detailed descriptions of the battle in Trenton along with Princeton, and continued to ask for more aid. He almost seemed pathetic, begging at the mercy of Congress, however as he heard the cheers throughout Morristown, the Americans spirit was again lifted, perhaps making the contentintal cause more sympathetic and easier to support. The two battles had been monumental in their cause, sure to start a storm in the northern colonies where the revolution resides the most. 

After letting the ink dry, he placed his signature at the bottom and sealed the papers together with his insignia. He sat back and waited for the wax to dry. 

When had the revolution become so hard to lead?

He began to write in another journal, detailing the events of the past week or so. He explained his capture of Alexander. 

_ I need him alive. _

George shook the thought out of his head as his hand reluctant stopped moving across the page. The boy could be turned, however the general knew he was toying with him. Getting what he wants before inevitably turning against George. The boy did not seem so quick to change to yield, even to the leader of the future tyranny free world. 

His mind came back to his journal as George noticed the small ink splotch gathering on the bound parchment before he jerked his hand away. 

-

Alexander's head was pounding. He had walked the length of the room at least one hundred times within the time he has spent there. He had no timekeep; it could have been an entire day to Alexander's knowledge. He must have been deep within the halls of the tavern, for no light shone through the cracks of the wooden walls. 

His books had not been delivered yet, and it was starting to make Alexander restless. It was most likely Washington's decision to make him unable to be conscious during the move to Morristown; to keep him somehow sedated and unable to fend for himself. 

When Alexander had taken off his clothes to inspect his body, he had seen the bedsores on his lower legs and hips. By the placement, he must have been laying for multiple days on end. It hurt his eyes to glance at, as if the rope burn on his wrists and ankles were any worse. They constantly pained Alexander, from the simple movements to the walking and use of his legs. 

Alexander's ability to walk was definitely hindered. He no longer had the stamina to march as he used to, as well as the impending pain from his stab wound called for rest every few minutes on his feet. Alexander planned to work his legs back to full function, not thinking of possible consequences within the wound. 

He had not even thought about the hunger in his stomach; it would make the raw of his insides feeling worse. When he had first woken he had felt the true hunger, however without being properly fed during the time within the tavern, the feeling had promptly gotten worse. 

As if his prayers have been answered, the door opened, revealing an aide. The door shut behind the man, his arms full with cloth in one arm and a rusted silver platter. Alexander could not see the man well within the dark.

"How long have I been here?" Alexander asked first. The aide set down the platter on the floor next to the small stand, along with the cloth. With no answer, the man lit the small candle with a scrap of flint, illuminating the small room with a faint glow once more. 

"Since his Excellency removed himself from your quarters, about three hours." The man responded. Alexander sat on his cot, mind reeling with the timekeep. 

"Are you certain?" 

There was no answer as the aide left the room, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Alexander groaned as he stared at the entrance. Would no one make due of conversation with him? 

Deciding against calling after the aide, he stood slowly from his cot and sat down in front of the small stand near the candle. 

He first glanced at the rusted platter. It held two small pieces of bread along with a wooden cup of what must be water. It was much too clear to be ale. He picked up the bread, feeling the stale food within his fingertips. Without thinking twice, he shoved a piece in his mouth, relishing the feeling of his quenched hunger. 

As he dined and drank the water, he looked at the bundle of cloth. On the first layer, a single large white linen wrapped the contents inside. Alexander felt the material in his hands; course, however slightly thick to keep warm. He set aside the sheet, tossing it over towards his bed. Within the next layer, a coat. 

Alexander cursed as he held up the thick material. The navy blue could be seen deeply through the small light within the room. It was woven carefully, he noted, as he ran his fingertips on the golden buttons deckered down the front. The material was heavy in his hands as he unfolded it, noticing the two leather bound books within. Alexander set them aside with a scowl, not glancing at the titles as he lifted the coat. 

It was very much too big for Alexander. He thought of the way the gold simmered across the front, the white prominent around the edges. This was no mere regular coat, it was one of the revolution that Alexander had despised since the beginning. Shivering in the cold, he reached his arms around himself as his arms slipped within the sleeves, alleviating some of the chills from his body. 

The coat was at least ten sizes too big. Alexander pieced it together that it must have been the general's personal coat. 

_ Damn you, Washington, _he thought as he reached to fasten the buttons. No redcoat would see him here, and Alexander was willing to take warmth over anything at the moment. He had not thought twice of the repression of wearing another army's uniform. 

As he settled within the newfound warmth, he reached towards the books that were wrapped within the coat. The first, a thick, leather bound Bible with a ribbon to keep place. It was hardly used, he noted, as he flipped through the clean pages of the scripture. Alexander had never been a Godly man, but he had heard through drunken stories deep into the night in Albany of the general's own religious freedom. Most of the rebel army took pride in their belief, however Alexander had learned to take what he could get for himself, rather than pray for what he knew he could accomplish without help. 

The second book made Alexander's skin crawl with loathing towards the commander. 

_ Common Sense. _A book on the advocate towards independence. 

Alexander flipped to the first page, when a small piece of parchment fell out of it. At first, his heart skipped a beat, thinking a page had fallen out of it's bound. He knew he would be hung if he had damaged one of Washington's books. However, as he frantically reached for the parchment, he noticed the scrawl was quite different from the rest of the book. A note presented itself in the light. 

_ For our cause. _

_ -George _

The name felt foreign to his lips as he mouthed out the words. _ George. _How petty, that the leader of the revolution would have such a strong surname, but a weak given first. However, he could not stop mouthing the name, a faint whisper on his lips deep into the night.

Alexander threw the parchment and book off to the side. Did the general expect him to read the very reason why he was captured in the first place? What madman would suggest such a thing. 

He thought that the commander might be getting into playing this _ game _he had invented for them. Bending the other, without breaking; however, something told Alexander that the general did not bend nor break, but was determined to make himself do one or the other. He would fight until his last dying breath before he would break, fall to pieces at the mercy of the general. 

Finishing his drink, Alexander settled onto his cot, grabbing the sheet and sliding it over his own body. It held the cold at bay, for now, as he settled with the Bible in his hands. His leg ached with newfound purpose. The coat was large enough to end its seam at the top of his thigh, keeping his upper body engulfed in warmth where the sheet did not reach. 

Common Sense laid against the corner of the room, as far away as Alexander could have placed it. He needed to stay away from that leather bound mess such as he would a plague. 

He opened the leather Bible, beginning to read the first verse. He would read the scripture a thousand times before he would begin to even think of opening the first pages of Common Sense.

_ Common Sense my shit, _Alexander thought, as he slipped into his own mind for the rest of the night. 

-

George removed the large hat off of his head, the hair slightly sticking to it as he lowered the garment to his chest in a formal hello to the men within his forces. 

He currently walked through a foot of snow lying on the ground. It had been a late fall, the white suddenly appearing during the night. The cold sting George's lungs as he walked past his soldiers, Greene to his left. 

"Your Excellency?" The officer asked, and George simply grunted in reply. His soldiers were up by midmorning, bustling about the camp trying to stay warm. Blankets were shared among the men, and ale was passed throughout the ranks. 

"Congress has written to the French, sir. I pray that letters return with French aide." 

He had not barely heard the voice of Greene, for he was too busy surveying the soldiers gathered outside of their tents.

George continued to slightly bow his head towards the men around them. He had sushed their calls of polite greeting, silently telling them to sit down, enjoy their drink; the soldiers had not known that George planned to stay for the remainder of the winter. _ Until the snow melts and the leaves begin budding out of the barren trees, _he repeated to himself from a letter that he wrote to Congress earlier that morning. 

At dawn, with sore eyes and an aching back, George forced himself out of the comfort of the feather mattress and into the wooden stool. He had grown to the comforts within Morristown, letting himself grow slack in personal correspondence. Tilghman had taken up official letters, writing day and night for the general. However, George insisted on keeping the Congress letters written himself, with his own signature scripted at the bottom of each one. 

Bringing himself back to reality, he turned to Greene. 

"My sir, I intend to send my best wishes through God." He reached out and clasped Greene's shoulder, looking into his blue eyes. They both nodded, and Greene stepped away, leaving the commander's hand warm. 

He had not thought about physical affection in quite some time. With the army now settled within Morristown for five sundowns, George had the freedom to have his thoughts roam free. The physical affection between man and woman had not crossed his mind in some time. 

Admittedly, he had only ever done such a thing once, with Martha the night of their wedding. It was tradition to consummate the marriage, and George knew that. However, Martha disagreed. She was married once, before her late husband died, and ever since he knew such information she had not been the same. She argued the act reminded her too much of him, the man before George, and insisted that they wait. However, he knew within the witness of God it had to be done. Reluctantly, she agreed, and lifted her dress and turned away. 

Being inexperienced, it had not taken long for George to spill into the sheets only minutes later. After, he had held her as she cried silently, rubbing circles into her shoulders and back. 

An agreement of their relationship was that when Martha was ready, she could also take up another lover. She assured him that she would bear no children. Martha would find a man who would no longer need a women that way. 

George, on the other hand, felt his cock rush in excitement from thinking at the prospect of a pence whore he knew the soldiers indulged in nightly. 

He could afford one. He had some spare pence within his crate back at headquarters just down the block. 

He shook his head out of his trance, returning to walking among the soldiers. This was not something he could think about in the presence of other men. 

Walking swiftly throughout the camp, feeling his long cape drag behind him in the snow, George began to walk back down the street to his own quarters. He resumed his thinking. 

Adultery was a sin, and George knew that. However, both him and Martha have prayed together on the matter, and within his heart, he knew that God would forgive him. _ The marriage was for profit, _he repeated to himself over and over as he shook off the snow from his boots once he reached the tavern. 

When George reached his quarters and opened the door to the morning light shining in, he suddenly stopped within the doorway. 

_ Orderly conduct for a general must not include pence whores. _

He rubbed his temples. How could he not think of this? The rumors would spread like wildfire, calling into question of his merit and reasoning. George sighed as he moved towards the desk, removing his overcoat and staring out the window at the snow covered town. 

His hands rubbed themselves together as George dared to think of the brown locks of Alexander's in between them, soothing his slight annoyance at being such a high rank within the army. 

His hands suddenly froze. _ Alexander. _

He had not seen the boy since he had visited his quarters the first day when arriving in Morristown, and the Alexander had crosses his mind many times during the day. He had not found the urge to see the boy yet, for his mind had been focused on more important matters than seeing a prisoner. 

The sentries trading shifts guarding the door made their rounds to the general, explaining how Alexander was doing. He slept and read, vigorously, and when the guards went into the room, the boy had only seemingly touched the bible and left Common Sense thrown in the corner, untouched by the guards knowledge. 

He should pay a quick visit before writing correspondence. 

Glancing around the room before leaving, George took account of what needed to be said through the letters. He had not written to Martha in quite some time, but neither had she, disappointing George to an extent. 

He sighed as he made his way quietly to Alexander's room. Singling the sentry to unlatch the door, the man quickly opened it and opened it for the general. 

As he walked inside, George noticed the nearly extinguished candle. Alexander sat on his side, bible within his fingertips, leaning towards the light of the candle. The small table had been moved to the cot side, so close to the book in the boy's hands it worried George that it might set alight with new flame. 

"Enjoying the scripture?" George asked, closing the door behind him. The sound seemed to snap Alexander out of his trance, shifting his gaze up at the general. 

"I am." 

"The sentries have told me you have read through it multiple times, and have not touched Common Sense once." 

"Your sentries are observant." Alexander shut the bible slowly, glancing at the verse and page of the book before setting it on the small table. "I would read through this a million times before I touch the filthy reason for this war."

"And yet," George crossed his hands behind him, "you are not a Godly man." 

"This eloquent bible may be the one to change my mind." Alexander rubbed his eyes in the dim light. 

"I cannot change yours to shift in favor of our cause?" George asked, curious. This game continues to be played, it seemed. 

Alexander laughed. 

"And what can you offer me? Clean clothes? A warmer room? More than two rations of uncooked food per sundown? A substantial pay of British pence and pounds?" 

George didn't know how to respond. Alexander was right, no matter how reluctant he was to admit it to himself. His army was overdue for enlistment money, struggling to receive food from congress, along with commitment from his army about future enlistment registrations. 

"Silence from the old fox tells me all I need." 

"The old fox?" George felt his face twist into confusion at the nickname. 

"It's what the redcoats call you." Alexander shrugged, seemingly unphased from the name. "You tend to sneak away on many occasions, along with not being easily able to contain. Howe tends to see himself as the hunter." 

George felt the amusement to smile as he let his face relax into one of fondness. _ Oh Howe, you bastard. _

"It suits me." He replied, and when he looked at Alexander who smiled back. 

A silent moment followed. George looked at Alexander's face, the candle flickering shadows across the boy's face. The ribbon that once held his hair back must have been forgotten, for his hair was sprawled across his shoulders. The first buttons on his undercoat have been unbuttoned, revealing the toned skin of Alexander's collarbones. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark as they shared a moment of each other's presence. 

George felt the urge to run his fingers through the locks so annoyingly displayed in front of him. 

"During the entire time I have seen you, a smile has not yet glanced your face." Alexander spoke with returning fondness. "Let alone the fact it is a nickname laughed at throughout the British forces." 

"I truly feel more comfortable now than I have in weeks. The rest in Morristown is doing wonders to my chaotic mind already." George sighed. His muscles ached from the previous days work, and yet it was only midday. 

"I am happy to hear that," a hesitant pause, "sir." 

George felt his heart tightening in his chest at the title. 

"You are changing, Alexander." 

"I am merely expressing mutual respect for a general who has given me materials to read, kept me unbound, and a seemingly limitless supply of candles and flint. I just simply express my gratitude of your treatment to the member of the Crown." Alexander explained with such eloquence and stability. George couldn't decipher if he should feel relieved that he was being recognized as a general of an army, or saddened that the boy had not yet truly changed his ideals of filth for the British. 

George supposed this would take much more time than he had anticipated. 

"What will it take for you to read Common Sense?" He asked, releasing the formal posture he once had. 

Alexander laid back down on the bed, fully relaxed and staring up at the wooden ceiling. George could hear the boy's rugged breathing as he sat in the quiet. 

"Think about it, Alexander. I will be right back." 

George excused himself as he left the room, sentries rushing to lock the door behind him. He almost turned to say no_ , it is okay, leave the door open, I will return in a moment _, but bit his tongue within his mouth before the sentences could spill out. 

George could lose his pieces within this game of chess with reckless moves. 

Opening the door to his own quarters, he opened the crate full of books. Within, he grabbed two spare candles, long and untouched. They were meant for the sake of reading late into the night. 

George grabbed an extra wooden chair from the side of his room. Alexander would appreciate the change of furnishing within the small space he was confined in. The general had an inkling that the boy had walked the length of the room multiple times throughout the last five sundowns. 

Slipping the candles within his pocket and the chair slung under his arm, George left the sanctuary of his quarters, returning to Alexander's door. The sentries paused before opening the latch, confused on the contents within George's hand. 

"Open it." He commanded towards the men. They followed orders, though hesitantly. 

Alexander had not moved from his position on the bed. He looked tired; sleeping arrangements have not been the best within the tavern. Considering that the boy had woken past sundown only five days ago, George is not surprised the boy had an irregular sleep. It had been long and hard; the winter. 

“Have you considered my offer?” George asked, setting the stool down the opposite side of the room, away from the bed. Alexander shifted his body to his side, facing the commander fully. 

“I want fresh air.” Alexander took a sharp breath in. “A simple walk around the town, or camp.” 

George sighed. The boy had been cooped up within the confines of the makeshift cell for multiple sundowns. Alexander seemed a free spirit, itching to move and travel. George had a fleeting thought of what it must have been like stationed in Albany for him; only a stationary post, wielding a small sword and musket, patrolling through the city on orders to keep command of the people. 

“What of your wound?” George referenced the bandage wrapped around the boy’s leg. Alexander glanced down at the cloth, his trousers still cuffed below the knee. 

“I am up on my feet often within the small room. The pain is minimal. When the doctor does visit, which is not very often, I must admit, he dresses the wound and encourages me to walk.” Alexander reached down to the cloth, running the tips of it through his hands. 

“May I observe?” George asked suddenly, not thinking before speaking. 

Alexander nodded. 

He lifted himself from the stool and made his way to the cot side, settling down on his knees. The wooden floor was hard against his joints, becoming increasingly aching throughout the cold winter days. He reached out towards Alexander’s leg, and glanced at the boy’s face for permission. Another nod was granted to him as he gently untied the cloth. It must have been changed recently, for it was clean and free of sweat. As he removed the cloth fully, he looked into the wound. 

The blade was small enough not to cause too much damage to Alexander. The slit in the skin had been fully closed, yet still looked sore to the touch. George looked at the boy once more, who looked back with curiosity. He returned his focus to the cut, and ran his thumb along the slit. The scab was secure, embedded in the skin; a good sign of healing. 

“Why are you no longer showing hostility towards me, sir?” Alexander inquired, watching the thumb stroke along the wound line. George contemplated the question for a moment before carefully responding. 

“I have realized the harsh treatment of my men is quite uncalled for, these past few days within the camp.” George never stopped thumbing the wound carefully. “Mutiny is upon us, I'm afraid. I have tried to give punishments throughout the camp to keep the men in line, however it only seems to be escalating the tension. 

“Realizing this mistake has been a sign of God. I started showing more leniency towards the soldiers, when needed, and the tensions have seemed to fizzle away, like a steaming pot of water thrown into the snow. I am hoping to show you our cause, _ our _way of life, in order for you to truly see the spirit of the revolution. Then, in time, I will keep you to help fight for the cause.” 

Alexander must have been stunned by his words, for silence followed suit to his speech. George reached for the cloth once more and redressed the wound, careful not to put too much pressure on to Alexander’s leg. 

“You have an eloquent way of getting your point across, old fox.” 

George smiled. 

“I will grant you a walk through the town. I cannot risk you seeing camp conditions and relaying information if you happen to escape.” George stood back up, his sore back bothering him as he stood by the bedside of Alexander. “This, for an exchange of reading the good words of Thomas Paine.” 

Alexander readjusted himself top sit up on his elbows, looking up at the general. The dim candle continued to flicker shadows against his face. George let his eyes drift towards the boy’s mouth, lingering his gaze for a heartbeat of a moment. Soon, it was moving. 

“Read it to me.” 

George hesitated. Alexander wanted him to read a book, out loud in front of him? 

“Don’t you like to read yourself?” 

“It might be better absorbed if the leader fighting for the principles listed within the book could attest to the values while reading.” Alexander laid back down flat on his back, hair sprawling down against the thin pillow. George clamped his fists to refrain from taking some strands between his fingertips. 

He could only nod as he made his way to the corner of the room, picking up the discarded book. George flipped his thumb through the pages, making sure the bound was still intact. Slipping the book under his arm, George grabbed the candles tucked within his pocket and set them aside the small table next to Alexander. The boy’s eyes watched his every move as he lit a new wax from the old candle, and slowly leaned forward to blow out the dim candle. The new lit wax shined brightly as George dragged the stool to be closer to the candle, only inches away from Alexander’s bedside. 

Was George really going to do this? Become lenient towards a member of the British Crown, allowing more freedom every time he visited Alexander?

Sitting in the stool, he flipped to the first page, and began to read the printed words out loud. 

Alexander laid in the same spot throughout the introduction, before eventually shifting to his side once more. His full body now faced George completely, giving him a clear view of the younger man's stature. As George continued to read, he glanced up at the boy every so often, connecting eyes with the British soldier for not even half a heartbeat before looking down at the book once again. 

At some point, many pages later and a quarter of a candle burned out, George looked up to see Alexander’s eyes shut and breathing softly. His chest rose and fell with deep sleep and calm, soothing George into a lull of his own drowsiness. He pulled out his silver pocket watch, seeing that he had been reading well into the hour. 

He folded the corner of the page and set it aside for Alexander. If the boy wanted to read it later, they can continue where they left off on another day. 

Before George knocked on the door signal the sentries to unlatch the handle, he looked back at the boy in the candlelight. He anticipated to be within the confines of the room with Alexander more often. 

He blew out the candle before making a quiet retreat to his own desk within his quarters. The sun hung low on the horizon, letting orange streaks fall into the tavern.

-

Alexander was getting anxious, to say the least of his troubles. 

For three sundowns now, he had tried his best to get his sleep back on the correct timekeep. With no real way to tell day from night, all Alexander had was the visits of George Washington to keep to himself. He must have been awake for hours before Washington came into his cell, and he remembers falling asleep to the general’s words drifting into his ears each night. 

Alexander would never admit to himself that the words of Thomas Paine came out somehow better through Washington’s mouth and soothing voice, and those very same words have made multiple correct points against the Crown of England. Alexander couldn’t believe the words that he thought during those nightly reading secessions. Some of the ideals were completely justified. 

Something told him it was a mistake to let Washington subdue him to an ideal changing. Alexander was losing, and just lost his bishop. 

He had not yet picked up the book himself since he received Common Sense; only Washington had held it in his hands and had seen the printed words strewn across the parchment. During the day however, Alexander had developed a routine for himself. 

When he wakes, he stretches; making sure his shoulders have no tension or knots, his legs still function properly. The wound only hurt when he applied direct pressure to the cut, on both sides of his calf. After stretching, he walked around the room a number of times every day. Usually, once the sentries noticed he was up and moving from the creaking in the floorboards, they would give him his first meal of the day. It consisted of bread, and if he was lucky, fresh ham. He appreciated the thoughtfulness even though the meat was often a minute away from being frozen solid. Some days, the doctor would appear in his room. Alexander had not gotten his name yet; and by the demeanor of the man, it was obvious that he didn’t care to be helping a redcoat prisoner stay alive. 

Alexander would read the scripture for most of the day. He had finished the entire bible twice now within the days spent confined in his small cell. His afternoon dinner would arrive, and he would read more, continuing the ever long cycle of reading, eating and sleeping. 

He began to look forward to Washington’s visits in the evening. Today, however, he was late. 

Even with no true sense of time, Alexander had gotten good at predicting when the general would arrive to the nightly reading. With the breakfast and dinner times, between the visits of the doctor, the time sense to when someone would arrive had become a habit with each passing day. And this particular moment, the leader of the revolution was late. 

It must have been well past sundown, the tavern quiet and still. Even within the room, Alexander could hear the men downstairs, drinking or walking along the wooden floorboards. Some days, it soothed him out of madness; others, it would drive him to scream, for he could not focus on the scripture reading. 

He heard large footsteps make their was across the hall in front of his door. Alexander felt his heart speed up, thinking it was the general, and was proven correct when the door unlatched to reveal Washington in thick winter gear. The cape flowing behind him was covered in fresh snow, along with his boots, trailing mud into the room. His face looked tired but remained stoic, and his arms were full of cloth. 

“Washington?” He heard himself ask, surprise evident within his voice. 

“Stand up.” He commanded, and Alexander set aside his book, gently marking the page number before he stood up as fast as he could. Through the loneliness of being in his cell for so long with such little human contact, he had lost the urge to rebel against orders, even from a commander of a rebel army. Alexander was really starting to change with how much he noticed that he was falling right into Washington’s trap. 

And yet, he couldn’t find himself to resist like he used to. 

Washington walked over to Alexander, unraveling the clothing in his hands. It was black as the night, and before Alexander could ask what it was for, the cloth was thrown over his shoulders. It was a black petticoat, and a thick one at that. It fell down to his bare feet, slightly pooling on the floor. He was then guided to the stool by Washington who had more cloth in his hands. A new pair of trousers that were heavier than the thin ones Alexander currently wore. 

“Do you need help slipping these on?” Washington was on his knees, holding up the breeches. 

“I can still dress myself; that I have not forgotten.” Alexander sneered, slightly offended from the general’s question. 

As he slipped them on while sitting in the stool, Washington held out a pair of fresh boots with socks to accompany them. Alexander had stood to put them on, before Washington guided him to sit back down when he winced at the pain of standing too quickly. 

“These, I will lace up.” The commander stated simply. Alexander downed a protest. 

As Washington tied the laces together in a neat knot, Alexander spoke. 

“Where are we going?” 

“You may not have noticed,” Washington finished tying his left foot and moved to the right, “but we have finished Common Sense yesterday evening. I promised to let you get fresh air.” 

“At this hour?” He scoffed, and the general tapped his boots to signal he was done. 

“It is only nine in the evening, Alexander.” Washington stood. “And if I may suggest you call me George from now on, since I have the privilege of calling you by your first name as well.” 

"I thought 'I may learn in time' to address you properly." Alexander quoted from not too many weeks ago in Trenton, when he had refused to call upon the general in a respectful manner. 

"And you have learned. This is where I tell you to drop the formalities."

Alexander could only nod as Washington, _ George, _forced him to turn around. It frightened him at first, however a soothing touch to his shoulder made him relax into the general’s touch. 

“This is only a precaution,” George explained as he moved Alexander’s hands behind his back. He already knew what was coming as the general gently brushed the rope between his fingertips. Alexander could still not see the man, but he could have sworn for a moment George brushed his own fingertips through his hands to calm him. 

“If it takes for me to be bound in order to see the lights of the city, then I will abide by your wishes.” He stated, the rope being tied around his wrists like almost a fortnight ago. It was reminiscent of the divot in the ground where he slept, the smell of ale throughout the soldier’s camp outside of Trenton, and the sounds of the drinking songs that Alexander could no longer hear so clearly within the tavern. 

After the knots were secured within Alexander’s wrists, he tested them, seeing how loose they were compared to the same rope bonds within the city of Trenton. 

“It is merely a formality, for if the sentries see you through the city.” George explained and walked within the view of him. The general adjusted the heavy petticoat, tying the knot in front of Alexander’s collar. His hands trembled; Alexander could feel the cold hands working against his throat. George hesitated to pull away once it was tied securely, looking up at down at his face with one of seemingly wonder. Alexander could feel the warmth of the general against his throat, but before he could memorize the feeling of true heat, George pulled away and stepped back. 

“Sir?” Alexander asked, before seeing the other man step forward once again. George reached his hands behind Alexander, brushing his hands across the back of his neck. Before he could ask what was happening, Alexander found the dark hood being pulled above his head, almost covering his eyes. A strand of hair was tucked behind his ear before George pulled away. It stunned Alexander; the tenderness the general was using for seemingly no point. 

“Come.” George said, stepping behind Alexander once more to lead him out of the small room. He had barely noticed his leg pain as the door unlatched, a single armed sentry standing watch in the short hallway. Candles were lit among the walls, showing a multitude of doors that had no locks like the room Alexander was confined in. 

They began to walk, the two men barely able to fit side by side within the small corridor. They reached the stairs, to which George spoke. 

“There are men drinking in the main hall downstairs. At the bottom of the steps, turn right.” Alexander nodded silently, hoping that the man could see the movement from under his petticoat hood. It was thick enough to conceal most of his face and hair at a glance. Alexander wondered if the men of the Continental army knew of his face and his intentions. 

He took each step slow, the sound of heavy clatter of boots directly behind him. Alexander wavered on each step, doing his best not to slip and fall to the ground below him, when he felt a securing touch to his shoulder. He stopped walking, attempting to regain balance before he continued. The hand on him from the General never ceased, continuing to guide him slowly until they both reached the bottom of the steps. 

Light can be seen from the main hall, and hushed voices speaking throughout the tavern. 

“They are not yet drunk, but will be once we arrive back.” George leaned forward to Alexander’s ear and whispered. “Most will be long past drink and rest within the hall.” 

Alexander did not respond as he took one last glance towards the main drinking hall. He caught sight of a soldier, holding a wooden cup as a babe would with his mother's breast, almost nursing the cup of ale. He had no shoes, the black borders of the man’s feet visible even from the dim light and the distance. Alexander shivered as he saw bloodstains on the mans blue overcoat, before ushered away with George’s commanding hand. 

Guided towards the main entrance of the tavern, Alexander was gently pushed to the door that George opened with a swing of his hands. Immediately, the winter air rushed into the room with a gust of bitter air, seemingly leaving Alexander’s body stiff. The petticoat, trousers and boots did nothing against the harsh reality of the outside world. 

“Go on,” George murmured, encouraging him to take a step outside of the doorway. Somehow, Alexander found his wits and stepped forward, hesitantly, before being completely surrounded by the night air. 

Alexander glanced around the street, in awe of the sight before him as George quietly closed the door behind them. 

They still stood on the small porch steps leading up to the tavern. Snow covered every inch of possible ground, excluding the shoveled dirt ground of the roads. Houses lined the dirt road, also covered in snow. Gated fences enclosed the properties, and the wooden homesteads shined with candlelight through the windows. In the distance, Alexander could see the camp on the green located at the center of town; fire and smoke twirled up into the air keeping the soldiers warm within their tents. 

Lastly, Alexander looked up to the heavens, pleased to see a clearer sky than that of a summer day, the moon shining brightly down on the town. The constellations seemed to glitter to Alexander’s eyes as he gazed at their patterns. He felt a sense of familiarity as he remembered his time on a Royal Navy British ship in his younger years. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” George asked, suddenly appearing in Alexander’s peripheral vision. He didn’t respond, for he was far too perplexed about the phase of the moon and star positions. 

“What is the day?” Alexander turned towards the commander, eager to hear the answer. 

“The fourteenth of January,” George started to walk down the steps. “Why?” 

Alexander fought the urge to laugh. He had been confined to such a small space with no concept of time he had nearly forgotten. 

“It was the day of my birth three days ago, sir.” Alexander walked down the steps, following the commander who let him take the lead. He had not responded to the statement that Alexander had made, but instead guided him when George placed a secure hand on his lower back. 

The men walked slowly; Alexander enjoying the sights of the city, while George kept a silent lookout by surveying the street every minute passing. The moon shone bright enough to light most of the town, however lanterns were placed at every homestead near the street to light the way. If it had not been for the lights within the houses, the town would have seemed to be dead to Alexander. 

“Tell me about your past.” Inquired George after some time in silence. The question surprised Alexander, but reluctantly answered when George squeezed his hand against his back. 

“I was born in the West Indies, in the Caribbean.” Alexander decided to start as he walked at a snail’s pace. George was not reluctant to follow at the slow march, giving the boy time to look around the city, but keeping a firm hand on his lower back to steady him. 

“My mother was a whore, or at least, that is what everyone told me. I never had a father. She passed when I was twelve due to sickness; I had no one to protect me. Shortly after my brother and I were separated when we were both shipped off on different British Royal Navy trading ships. I grew up on those ships watching the stars.” Alexander pointed up at the flickers of light in the night sky, George intently watching him as he spoke. 

“I had learned to read and write at a very young age, bless my mother. This could be proven helpful to the British sailors as I became the head of correspondence.” 

“And when the war broke out, I assume you were sent off to fight?” 

“A classic draft,” Alexander looked up to George next to him, “and I had not opposed. I wanted to serve the Crown.” 

“You were anxious to fight. I was correct on that guess.” George smirked down, keeping his mouth closed but with pride shining in his eyes, visible in the moonlight. 

They continued to walk together, before Alexander began to shiver underneath the heavy petticoat. Given, it was doing wonders to keep the warmth within his body, but to his small, weak stature, it was not enough. Sentries patrolled throughout the streets every so often, in which Alexander would keep his head down to conceal his face. Not one bothered to stop the two once they recognized the commander in chief was walking, still keeping his hand secured on Alexander’s back. It was a source of heat to him, something he welcomed, as well as a guiding hand through the dark streets of Morristown. 

“How long am I permitted to walk?” He asked, another sentry passing by the pair. 

“For as long as you wish. You gave into my request to read Common Sense, and this is your reward.” George seemed content with the trade. 

“I did not read it, sir,” Alexander pointed out, “you read it to me, while I humbly slept within your tavern, of the town which you have taken of your winter residence. This was your doing, your excellency.” 

George must have felt a rush of pride, for his face contorted into one of fondness. Alexander smiled back, and then he requested to be back on their way to the tavern. George turned him around and they began to return at pace, quicker than their walk to the outskirts of the city. 

"Still got it in you, old fox?" Alexander muttered, earning a quiet laugh from George. It was a peaceful truce.

Alexander held his tongue to ask the commander questions about his past as well, for it would only be polite and proper to both share instances about their youth. He instead not to parade the general, for it was irrelevant. In order to gain trust for this new found sense of realization towards the war, Alexander must surrender himself completely at the mercy of George Washington before giving the man an opportunity to take it all away from him. 

Both men arrived at the tavern, with Alexander starting to slightly limp from the cold and overuse of his wounded leg. 

“Do you need help up the steps?” George asked, worried that the boy might slip on the cold wood. Alexander nodded, the sentires watching as George held out his hand for him, gently guiding him up the steps. Once they reached the main tavern hall within the open doorway for the commander, Alexander took another glance at the drinking men, who were now at the bottom of their first ale barrel. They all sang and drank, singing about how the lobster backs will never take their land, and how they will never give up the fight; for it is predestined that they will win. 

“Quick, while they are distracted.” George returned his hand to Alexander while they slowly crawled up the wooden steps to the second floor. It was only when they had reached the top did he finally felt himself grow tired, his feet sore from much more overuse than he had been accustomed to within the confines of his room. The tavern was warm inside, and with George by his side, it made it all the better to feel the warmth within his petticoat. 

When they had reached Alexander’s door, George signaled to have the door open, and the sentires did not hesitate to follow through with the command. The amount of power he held simply by being appointed by Congress baffled him. The Crown had natural birthright to have power, due to royal blood, and it confused Alexander to an extent why these men would willingly follow the commander into battle because a piece of parchment allows him to do so.

Once inside the room, George immediately reached for the rope binding his wrists. The petticoat had to be removed after, and the general reached towards Alexander’s throat once again. 

He looked up at George while his fingers untied the tight knot against his collar, doing his best to analyze the man’s features. The wrinkles becoming on George’s face were obvious in the candlelight that Alexander had failed to blow out before their departure. His eyes, soft yet demanding, stayed focused on Alexander’s throat. 

“Must you go?” Alexander murmured, the general finally taking off of his petticoat and setting it on the stool to the side. “I would like to listen to your words once more.” 

“I have matters of correspondence to attend to, unfortunately.” George walked behind him, finally untying the bonds. Though loose, it brought Alexander back to the brisk memories of Trenton, and the cold seeping into his bones within his tent. Once his wrists were free from behind him, he brought his wrists to his eyes to witness any damage. George had tied them just so there would be no evidence of the encounter with the rope. 

“I again apologize for the formality.” George was in front of him now, inspecting Alexander’s wrists with his eyes. A silent hope to have the commander reach out towards him stayed quiet. 

“I appreciated the looseness of the rope, sir.” Alexander responded, looking up at him once again. “May I keep the trousers? They are better for the cold.” 

“You may.” 

George stayed in place in front of him. Neither man moved for a moment, but before Alexander could ask what he was doing, George stepped back. 

“I will return tomorrow.” He simply said in haste, existing quickly through the door. 

It was much later that he realized that the door was never latched shut behind the general, leaving the entrance unlocked. 

-

His hands were beginning to become stiff within his personal study in the tavern. George leaned back from the desk, staring at the parchment in front of him when he heard a knock at the door. Something told him it was not good news. 

“Your Excellency?” It was Tilghman. “May I come in?” 

“Enter.” 

George placed the current parchment aside under some more papers, trying to hide his shape of writing, once again, to Congress, begging for money and supplies. It seemed to have been days since he had last stood from the desk, but multiple sundowns had passed since he had seen Alexander. Tilghman was the first person he had seen since then. 

“I was sifting through your correspondence, sir, and this letter came for you from Princeton.” The aide held out a sealed letter, and George’s heart dropped within his chest as he glanced at the red wax; Doctor Rush. 

The man had offered to stay behind in Princeton before relocating to Morristown. His goal was to help soldiers on both sides of the lines; British and American wounded alike. George had commended his valor, and sent him on his way to the heart of the city before they evacuated. He had not received a letter since then. 

“Thank you, Tilghman.” George took the letter within his hands. The aide did not make a move to leave, surely interested within the contents. He turned towards his desk and unsealed the letter, his hands quivering as he glanced over the written words. 

_ Your Excellency, _

_ I must give you my sincerest gratitude for letting me stay behind within the city of Princeton to help the soldiers injured on both sides of the fire. It is with great renowned that I express this before bearing the unfortunate news I must pass along to the leader of the Revolutionary Army. _

_ During the battle, Brigadier General Hugh Mercer was mortally wounded, and despite my best efforts to save him from an imminent passing, I regret to inform you that Mercer has died from his wounds given to him from the Battle of Princeton on January 3rd. He had met his end on January 12th inside the makeshift field hospital within Thomas Clarke House. _

George held his hand to his mouth in a silent gasp, setting the letter down on the desk. He was unable to read the rest of the letter. 

“Sir?” Tilghman asked, stepping towards his commander in chief. 

“Hugh Mercer is dead.” Was all George muster to say gravely, not recognizing his own voice. The information on one of his favorite generals had come to him within a letter, in his personal study, when he had not had the opportunity to say goodbye. 

“He was an excellent man, sir, and served his newfound country well.” Tilghman responded solemnly. 

“Get out.” George commanded. Tilghman did not hesitate to leave as quickly as he could, afraid of what the general might do if he did not leave with quick haste. 

George got out of the desk, falling to his knees. 

“Oh Lord, please guide Hugh Mercer into the path of righteous Heaven,” He prayed out loud, not bothering to pray against his bible for the direness of the situation. “In Jesus name I desperately pray, Amen, for the man whom I place such valuable trust.” 

He felt his eyes shut forcibly closed as he stayed in the position for a time. A man like that did not deserve to die, however, George knew this was a part of revolution and a part of war. 

He finally stood from the floor and returned to his desk, picking up his personal bible and mumbling another quiet prayer to himself for a keepsake. He prayed for God to use the sacrifice of Mercer to lead the revolution in their direction and for their cause to fight against tyranny, for it was all they had left. A fire, a spark of spirits and hope among men. 

Suddenly, George heard the unmistakable sound of boots running along the wood of the hallway outside the door. Without prompt, Nathanael Greene quickly opened the door to his quarters, leaning into the room red faced and out of breath. 

“Your Excellency, you _ must _come now.” He breathed out, gasping for air. George dropped his bible and followed the Major General through the halls of the tavern, passing quickly past Alexander’s room and out of the front entrance. 

Greene brought him to the tents of the soldiers located town center, where men were gathered in a thick circle. From a distance, George could hear the cheering and the shouts of his own soldiers. He broke out into a run, leaving Greene at a distance behind him before he shoved the men aside to see what they were looking at. 

Two soldiers, on top of each other, brawling with blood coating both of their faces. 

Greene caught up behind him, while George stood silent, a slow rage burning within him. He rushed forwards before the men could hit each other once more, pulling the man on top and shoving him to the side with all of his strength. Immediately, the first man ran forwards back to the boy on the ground, a snarl escaping him, but George was quicker and stopped him in full force. The army had grown quiet, silencing their cries of joy to the fight happening before them. 

“_ What is the meaning of this _?” George shouted, the boy on the ground finally standing up on his own accord. He turned to the man in front of him who snarled. “What is your name?” 

“Benjamin, and this son of a bitch stole my rations for the afternoon!” the man, Benjamin, shouted at George. 

“That is no way to talk to your commander!” he screamed at Benjamin. “We do not curse at this camp!” 

“But sir-” 

“No!” George retorted. He turned to the boy behind him. “Is this true?” 

“No, sir, I did not steal any food. I swear!” 

“Liar!” Shouted Benjamin, and lunged forwards one more time, trying his best to get past George. He shoved the man to the side again, throwing him on the ground. 

“Men!” He turned towards the large group around him; it must have been the whole army gathered in a mass of bodies to view the fight. “This is no way to treat each other! This army relies on trust, and the safety of all of you!” 

George felt his heartbeat in his ears. The rage he felt towards every man around him was not too uncanny from that of the current Monarch sitting across the sea on his golden throne. 

“Mutiny is not something to mess with.” His voice was starting to calm, even though George felt the burn of anger sting his heart. “Throw this, Benjamin, into the empty cellar of the Tavern. The boy who allegedly stole the food as well.” 

For a moment, no one moved, afraid to anger the general more. 

“Now!” He commanded, and the crowd dispersed, the sentries running towards the two men. George finally let go of the man Benjamin, tossing him to the nearest guard who bound his wrists with rope. Quickly, both men were escorted away, leaving George to stand in the middle of the snow, finally realizing that he had not bothered to put on his coat or hat to shield himself from the snow. He shivered, starting to walk back to the tavern. 

“Sir, I-” Greene started, but was soon interrupted. 

“Did you know about the brawl?” 

“I only saw them verbally exchanging insults in a crude manner, your Excellency.” Greene replied, coming up on George’s left hand side, attempting to keep up with the quick pace back to the tavern. 

“Then this is not your doing.” George sighed as he reached the main door to the entrance hall. As he stepped inside, the warmth greeted him and Greene, settling an invisible cloak over the two men to soothe their anger. 

“The man did not steal rations,” Greene said, following George up the stairs. “He has been within my regiment since Harlem Heights. Loyal and true man, I assure you, sir.”

George opened the door to his quarters once again, heading to the desk. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Greene asked quietly in his doorway. George only sighed into his hands. 

“How can I lead an army who believe their enemies are within their ranks?” He decided to ask. “How can I survive the winter without clothes for my troops, shoes for their feet, or blankets for their long nights? How must I start another campaign when the season comes around, blessing us with warm weather and the grounds to fight? How must I _ feed my own men _, Greene?” 

The major general shook his head. 

“You are doing your best, sir.”

“My best is not enough!” George slammed his hand on the table, practically spilling the ink within its container all over his letters of correspondence. 

“It is enough for now, your Excellency. It is giving most of your men hope.” 

“They will die here if we do not pick up the pace of our efforts,” George put his head in his hands. “This will be the end of our revolution if this continues.” 

“Then we as officers shall try harder.” 

George looked down at his trembling hands. 

_ I needed you alive, Mercer. _

-

Alexander, to say the least, had complicated feelings. 

He had been without seeing George in over a sennight now, he was sure. Though with his lack of timekeep, he heard the sentries changing shifts guarding his now unlocked door. The little food he receives still comes at the same intervals, along with deliveries of candles when he requests. The wax is almost always lit, for the darkness reminds him too much of the darkness within the bow of the Royal Navy, or the tent he was confined in within Trenton. 

The doctor had stopped coming within the days of George’s visit, saying if he can walk well enough and if need be he can voice his concerns to the general, then there is no need for him to waste his time tending to the enemy when there were men screaming over the pain of frostbite only just downstairs. Alexander felt slightly offended by the notion of the man, however, understood the doctor’s intentions. He had even taken it upon himself to remove the bandage covering his wound, for there was no longer a practical use of good cloth. 

Alexander had lost the privilege to know what a bath feels like. He had not bathed in weeks, and yearned to feel the warmth of water submerging his body in warmth until cooled. He was sure that the men in the Continental army had been the same, not bathing for multiple days at a time, for hot water was still scarcely come by and too much effort to boil. 

Currently, he was pacing in his room, reading the words of Thomas Paine himself. 

Only that morning had he finally gave up his grudge towards the simple pamphlet, getting tired of the scripture. He had lost count of how many times he had read the bible that belonged to George. Alexander had also lost count of how many paper cuts have been grazing his thumbs deep within the night. 

His door opened with such a surprise to Alexander had almost tripped over his feet while looking down at the book. His gaze whipped up to see a wrecked George, standing in the doorway with a cloth bundled up within his hands. 

“Where have you been?” He found himself asking sharply, marking the page where he had left off, setting it beside the candle and on top of the bible. 

“Occupied.” George’s voice was clipped, and he shut the door behind him, ordering for it to be locked. “You are finally reading the words of Thomas Paine, I see.” 

Alexander only nodded as he sat on the bed, the general taking his customary post at the stool next to the bed. 

“I have a gift.” George lifted the bundle of cloth. “It was the only way for me to sneak it in here.” 

He slowly unwrapped the cloth, revealing two glasses and a bottle of what seemed to be wine. 

“Sir!” Alexander gasped, astounded by the gesture. 

“To make up for my absence,” the commander explained, “and for a belated celebration of your birth, between us.” 

George opened the cork to the bottle, then reached for a glass and began to pour. The thick, red liquid poured out with ease, and he filled it almost to the brim before handing it off to Alexander, who took it willingly. 

Starting to pour a glass for himself, George glanced at Alexander taking a tentative sip of the liquid. It was indeed thick, however sweet. Alexander watched George fill up his glass as he filled his mouth with the wine, before the general raised his glass in a silent toast. Alexander returned the gesture. 

“To your health, Alexander.” He smiled, and took his own sip. 

“Where did you get this exquisite wine?” Alexander decided to ask after the initial toast. 

“Exported from Mount Vernon just the other day.” 

Alexander pulled a face of confusion. 

“My estate in Virginia.” George explained. “It is quite a long story to how I acquired the property and the slaves to tend to the land. Some other time, I will tell the tale.” 

“We have time, sir.” Alexander protested, taking another sip. It was quite good, he must admit, though it must have been created by the use of abusing slaves. 

“Then I shall explain. It had belonged to my family for many years, my great grandfather purchasing the land to trade tobacco with the crop was first beginning to flourish within Virginia. Settled right next to the Potomac River in 1674 with a land grant to make trading easier.” George had to take a drink and an uneasy breath. “My elder half brother, Lawrence, inherited the land from my father, but when he died, he left it to his only child, a daughter. She only held the land in her name for two years before giving it to her mother, Anne. I was already leasing off of the land for quite some time by that point. When Anne had passed, I became the sole owner of the homestead, the land, all livestock and slaves as well. I tend to it when I can.”

Alexander listened intently to the story, taking a drink here and there. George spoke with memory, recalling the people in his mind as he spoke of them. The pause before he had mentioned his brother had intrigued Alexander, wanting to know how the commander felt about the situation. 

“Speaking of inheritance,” George reached towards the bundle of cloth once more to reveal a wrapped item, covered in thin parchment. “This is for you.”

Alexander set aside his now empty wine glass, taking one last drink before placing it on the small table. He gently took the item from George’s hands, turning it around to the seal. Alexander opened it carefully, trying not to rip the parchment. It must have been hard to come by in Morristown. When he saw the contents inside, he gasped. 

A silver pocket watch sat within the parchment. 

It was perfectly polished, reflecting Alexander’s face back at him. He had grown a lot more facial hair since he last remembered, and his hair was much more unkempt. He looked disgraceful, if he was honest with himself. He opened the little silver latch, revealing an elegant clock face. Within the cover, was an engraving written in perfect scripture. 

_ Washington _. 

“It belonged to my father. He gave my brother and I two watches, my personal one in gold, and this one was found with my brother’s crates.” George slightly laughed. “The sentries are quite annoyed that you keep asking for the date and time.”

“Sir!” Alexander gasped, shock filling his body at the notion of this being George’s father’s watch. “I cannot accept this!” 

“Then think of it as a loan.” George reached forwards to close the watch within Alexander’s hands, covering them with his own. “It’s yours, for now. The last thing I need is to lose you to a decent to madness within this room.” 

George had not pulled his hands away, keeping them closed over Alexander’s own to keep the watch within the other’s grasp. They were unexpectedly warm to him, and Alexander wished those hands would never leave his own, for the warmth made him feel calm and safe, despite still being held prisoner within an enemy camp. 

It was starting to not become that bad, besides the smell of sweat permanently stuck on him. 

Alexander looked up at George just as he started to rub his thumb along the lines of his hand, slow strokes following his fingers. He watched the general’s face, who was in turn focused on his hands. 

“Are you going to tell me why you haven’t bothered to come to my room?” He asked after some time of quiet. George pulled away, leaving Alexander’s hands cold as he watched him reach for the wine bottle once again, filling up both their glasses. 

“One of my generals has passed from his wounds from Princeton.” George handed Alexander the spare glass, once again full with the sweet red liquid. “Along with my men beating each other up over simple food rations.”

He had no true way to respond when George confided in him, so he took a drink, filling his throat with sweet distraction. 

“This army is quickly going to meet their demise if we do not fix our dire situation. The continental dollar is becoming worthless against the pound every passing day, the merchants in the town won’t take our money. The homesteads willing to give us their crop for our cause come few and far between.” 

“You have written to your…Congress?” Alexander asked. 

“Many, many times throughout the encampment here. We are hoping to receive a reply soon.” 

Alexander felt a surge of anger run through him, from the base of his spine to his fingertips holding the glass and the silver pocket watch. 

“What kind of a Congress is that?” He asked, voicing his thoughts. “They bear no response to your pleas of help?” 

“It is a body that needs correction, yes-” 

“Sir!” Alexander interrupted, earning a glare from George. “You must make them see. Earn a representative from the body to observe the conditions of the camp, send them back with their knowledge of the situation and have them beg for money and supplies.” 

George drank out of his glass in contemplation. The air had suddenly turned stiff in tension, making Alexander regret what he had said. It was a bold move, at that one, but something about the general’s eyes told him otherwise. 

“Once again, Alexander,” George said after another drink, “your mind precedes you.” 

“What do you mean sir?” 

“I mean,” he stood from his stool, settling the glass and cloth across his lap onto the floor and began to pace around the small space. “It is a very good idea. Congress will not know the extent of our encampment unless it came from a mouth that they trust, in person.” 

George began to down his wine, and encouraged Alexander to do the same. He had not wanted to down the liquid so quickly, for he intended to savor the taste for as long as he could; only God knew when the next time he could enjoy a cup full. 

“I must write to the Congress, and I shall return with another reward, if this idea of yours works.” George leaned forwards and grabbed Alexander’s hand, squeezing it within his own. “I will tell you of the outcome if one presents itself.”

There was a quiet moment before George pulled his hand away from Alexander; a pregnant pause in intention before he had ultimately left, closing the door behind him, the latch remaining unlocked. 

Alexander had looked at the watch again in his hands, opening it and tracing his finger along the scripture of the family name. Only then, as he closed the watch within the hour of nine, did he notice that he had given George a solution to an enemy problem; something that the British would pay good pence to know that the army at Washington’s fingers is slowly crumbling to dust. 

-

“We still have no word on the British movements, your Excellency.” Reed stated in a grave tone, the officers around the large table all shaking their heads. 

“We estimate that Cornwallis has no true location of us.” Greene spoke after, staring down at the multitude of maps. All the men around George looked grim, cold, starving and most of all, lost, lacking hope within their eyes. He had sent the letter off to Congress three days ago, requesting a man to look at their encampment to get a true vision for the makeshift governing body. 

“We are still awaiting the letter from Congress to send a representative upon our camp.” George told the men, earning a scoff from Reed. Unsurprising, but he sent a glare towards the officers way, immediately earning an apology. 

“Sir?” Knox asked. “Word is going around that you got this idea from the prisoner, Hamilton.” 

George felt his heart drop within his chest. _ The sentries _. They must be listening to his conversations, by God. 

“It is true.” George decisively said. An uproar from the officers suddenly bombarded his ears. 

“Why should we take the word of the enemy!”

“Sir, that is absurd!” 

“How should we know he isn’t playing you from right under your nose?” 

“He is not playing me!” George snapped, slamming his fist on the table. The officers quieted, staring at the general. “I know when I am being played, and if you want the truth, I am playing him. I _ need _him to turn towards our cause. That is why we are feeding him and keeping him alive.” 

“Perhaps wasting time and energy on the boy is going to waste, if he so easily bends your will.” Reed seemed apprehensive about the subject, trying his best to steer George away from the idea. Something about Reed did not seem right; if he was questioning George’s reasoning, then how did Knox find about his conversation? He had kept silent of the inquiry from Alexander, making sure no one would know about his source of ideas. Once again, the boy had been correct about the army’s matters, and come up with a valuable solution that George was not ready to discard from account of trying. 

“If you doubt my judgment, Reed,” he started, speaking low and deliberately while watching the man’s gaze, “then please, feel free to take it upon yourself to leave this meeting. You shall be discharged honorably and your men will be merged into Stirling’s brigade.” 

Reed stayed put, intently staring the general down. George grunted as he shifted his eyes down towards the table. 

“If I play him, use him and his ideas, he will find solace within our ranks, I assure you, men.” he sighed, waiting to hear oppositions. There were none to be heard, though George did see looks of speculation throughout their faces. 

The door opened with a crash, rattling the small study and effectively surprising George to an extent to reach for his sword, the rest of the officers pulling out their small pistols, already loaded. 

“Tilghman!” George shouted, ordering the men to stand down. Tensions seemed to be on thin ice recently, the last thing he needed was for men to shoot his aide-de-camp. 

“Sir, please forgive my sudden interruption,” Tilghman was out of breath and still in his overcoat as he lifted his hand, outstretched towards George, “but this letter must be read.” 

“I specifically told you not to disturb me during this meeting.” George said blankly. 

“Please, your Excellency, look at the letter.” 

He walked forward, snatching the letter from his aide’s hand. It was simply addressed to his name and rank, but what caught his attention was the red wax seal, enclosing the letter to only be opened by him. 

The seal of John Adams. 

“It’s from Congress.” George turned back to his men and to the table, seeing the reactions of them all; the officers were surprised to say the least. 

He tore the letter open, and began to read silently, before grinning down at the scripted, handwritten words. _ God gave us his grace _. 

“They are sending a representative to our camp, due to arrive in two days time.” He told everyone around him, earning cheers of joy and vigor. 

“You are all dismissed.” George said with a smile, letting the men fill out. 

“Let us all drink!” Shouted Greene, earning another cheer. George was watching the men file out, when Reed stopped beside him. 

“It looks like your little prisoner's plans had succeeded.” The man murmured in George’s ear. “Try to avoid listening to the boy from now on.” 

Reed left George alone in the room, the chorus of cheers now heading steadfast down the steps to the drinking hall. He stood astonished, on how his own high ranking officers would give him so much disrespect for his own decisions. He could tell that Alexander was truly changing, for he was now agreeing with him when they discussed Common Sense and the boy was becoming more lenient with the prisoner status. 

Speaking of Alexander, George remembered the promise made to him if his intel ended up being correct about the representative for Congress. He turned towards the table, rolling up the maps and documents of their encampment and surrounding area before leaving the room to his personal quarters. Setting everything down on the desktop, he turned towards his crate, calling Tilghman inside. 

The aide rushed in, saluting and greeting George in a formal matter, At least one soldier respects him to an extent not to call him out on his intel. 

“Can you please get the house servants to make up a hot bath and a shaving kit within the bathing room?” He asked as he shuffled through the books and journals, searching for two more books to lend to Alexander. 

“Yes, your Excellency.” Tilghman made his way out of the room, leaving George to his thoughts. 

How could Knox know it came from Alexander unless the sentries were listening to their conversations? The guards were there for a simple reason: to protect Alexander from escaping and from harm that might come to him. If his own guard was not loyal to George, then what were they being required to do? Backpay might have been an issue, but what concerned him was the possibility of one of them being a spy, loyal to someone else within the camp, or even worse, outside of the camp to the enemy lines. If the British knew Alexander was here, they would be sure to siege the town, in which George and his army are in no condition to fight. 

He sighed as he pulled out one of his first journals he had held when he first acquired a lease for Mount Vernon. It was just standard day to day exports, imports, explanations and future plans for the property that he might indulge in later. It would be the perfect journal for Alexander, a leather bound book that was just as thick as the scripture and would keep him occupied. The second book would be a similar journal, however it would be about his time in the House of Burgesses, explaining the politics and policies he had introduced to the council. Alexander is a young man, surely he could be interested in the politics of the colonies preceding the war. 

He slipped the journals onto the floor, before pulling out a fresh parchment and his spare quill box, filled with ink and extra feathers. Scribbling out a note quickly against the floorboards, he read the parchment once the ink had dried. 

_ We are being watched by the sentries. Spies for an officer, no doubt. No more political discussion unless written. _

George sighed as he folded the parchment into his coat pocket. Picking up the books once more, he walked out to the bathing room, only a couple quarters down the hallway after Alexander’s. The women were still filling the hot water into the bronze bathtub, large enough to fit two large men with room to spare. Tilghman must have told the women that George was planning to use the bath, however that was untrue, for he had already indulged himself in one not two sundowns ago. The shaving box was placed right next to the tub on a small stool for use. 

“We are almost done, sir.” Said a woman in a green dress, smiling at him. He turned the gesture and assured her it was no problem. 

George set down the books on the nearby stool with the shaving box, quietly making his exit to fetch Alexander. 

When the sentries opened the door, he made sure to side eye them, paying attention to their movements as he slid inside the room. 

Alexander was standing against the wall, looking down at the pocket watch intently, watching the slow moving arms of the clock face tick past the time. His hair was a mess, getting even worse every time that George walked into the room. 

"I have another gift for you, Alexander." He said, the shutting of the door behind him. 

"Sir?" He asked, quickly shoving the pocket watch into his trousers, surprised that the general had walked in. 

"Would you follow me please?" He asked, implying to get Alexander to the door. He leaned his body off of the wall and regaining his balance, immediately appearing by George's side. It felt natural to him, seeing the boy at his left. 

"Will I be bound?" He asked. 

"It is just across the hall." 

Alexander nodded as George opened the door, keeping the boy at a close distance by slipping his hand on his shoulder and guiding him across the small hallway. A new shirt might be in order for Alexander, due to the material being scratchy against George's palm. 

He led the boy into the bathing room, and when Alexander gasped at the large tub steaming with hot water, George smiled and shut the door behind them. By then, the women had filed out, leaving them alone within the small space. 

"Sir, is this about-" 

George shushed him, slipping the parchment out of his coat pocket and quietly handing off the note to Alexander, who read it with weary eyes. He looked up at George, surprised by the accusation. 

"This is a late birthday gift, Alexander." He walked towards the tub, tapping his fingers against the rim. "Come." 

He did come, walking across the room slowly, almost as if the sight in front of him was a dream. He noticed the shaving box on the stool, along with the two personal journals. 

"New books?" Alexander asked, stroking the leather binding with his hands. 

"One is my first journal inquiring the trading with Mount Vernon. The other is my first few years within the Virginia House of Burgesses preluding the war." George explained, gesturing to the parchments. "I hoped you would enjoy some new choice of reading materials."

Alexander nodded, greatly appreciating the gesture as he picked up one of the journals and turned it through his hand. 

"Now, please take your time to bathe. I have my own book to read while I sit with you." 

"You'll be staying?" Alexander asked, slightly worried about the intrusion. George laughed. 

"I will sit on that stool over there," he pointed towards the door, "and will read to you if you'd like." 

"I would, sir." 

"Please," George held out his hand, inviting the young man to shake it. "Call me George. Or at least Washington. I can trust you now not to take the formalities at heart." 

Alexander shook his hand, smiling. 

“Now, general,” he smirked up at George, “I kindly ask you to step away so I may bathe.”

George simply nodded, stepping away to his chair facing the opposite direction of the bronze tub. He sat down with the political single of the journals, opening to the first page as he heard clothes being thrown to the floor. He looked up over the brim of the book, looking at Alexander’s now bare back. It was smooth, perfectly unscathed and white, rippling with muscle across the long stretches of skin. 

Alexander removed his first pair of trousers; the very same ones that George had given him on the night they took a walk through the main street of Morristown. It revealed the white pair underneath, thin and shorter than the newer ones. It hung low on his hips, exposing the small of his back in a way that made George want to look away to keep him sane, however he never stopped looking at the boy in front of him as he undressed. 

Alexander glanced back, catching George in the act. He didn’t look away from the younger man, face flushing read, and Alexander did not turn away in his stare off. The boy began to untie the strings holding up his second pair of trousers, and looked away to bend down and let them drop as well, fully exposing his naked backside to George in an outrageous display. 

With the boy’s long hair down grazing the top of his shoulder blades and the fair skin from not being exposed to sunlight, George would have confused Alexander for a normal maiden, begging to be defiled. His skin was supple enough to make him want to drag his fingertips along Alexander’s back, tracing words into his skin of unimaginable things. Suddenly, an image appeared in George’s head of bending Alexander over to the side of the tub, a hand in his hair and the other dragging on the small of the boy’s lower back, going lower and lower until-

Alexander looked back at George, bringing him back to reality. He looked back down at his journal in haste, face as red as the bastard British coats that he had seen Alexander wear back in Trenton. 

He focused on the hand written words within his hands instead of Alexander flexing his body to climb into the large tub. He heard the water splash along the edges, until it inevitability stilled as Alexander settled into a sitting position. George figured it was safe to look up, and was greeted by the cold stare looking back at him. 

An awkward pause ensued, Alexander knowing that the general was looking at his bareness, and George knowing that he had gotten caught but failed to stop himself from continuing the action. 

“Read to me, George.” 

The subject seemed to have been dropped as the silence broke. George normally would have felt apprehension towards an order for him to do something, but today was different, and the way that Alexander kept looking at him; George was glad to focus his attention to his political journal. 

If his voice was dry and scratchy to the point of farce, Alexander had not said anything about it as George tried to regain composure. The boy kept his eyes on the general the entire time, through every line and every word of his journal until they were about halfway done reading the journal. George’s timekeep had them sitting for over an hour by now, in which he rubbed his eyes and closed the leather. 

“Must you stop?” Alexander asked, his head thrown back against the rim of the bronze tub, the water surely cold by now. The boy did not seem bothered by the temperature, for he had not moved for the better part of the hour that had passed so quickly. 

“You have been soaking for so long, I will not be surprised if your fingers look like prunes by now, Alexander.” He sighed, leaning to one side of the chair and resting his head onto his fist. Alexander lifted his head, looking at his fingers. 

“I assume your statement to be correct.” He answered, turning his hands around to look at them with tired eyes. “Help me shave? There is no mirror and my hands are trembling.” 

George snorted. 

“You should have thought of that before soaking your body until you turn into an old man.” 

“What, like you?” Alexander laughed so hard the water started to spill over the edges, his whole body riveting in the sound. George memorized the laughter within his mind, imprinting the vibrations of his chest as a mental image. 

He never knew when he would hear Alexander Hamilton laugh like that again. 

“An old man huh?” George asked, standing up from his chair and making his way over to the tub, slowly so he could not possibly rush to do what he truly wanted, not even daring to look down at what was held in between the boy’s legs. “Like the old fox all you redcoats call me?”

“I don’t believe I am a redcoat anymore.” Alexander looked off to the side, facing away from the general now standing at the edge of the tub. 

The statement astonished George. The lost look on Alexander’s face seemed to tell the story; he had no idea what he was anymore. 

For a moment, he truly felt for Alexander. He had held him captive; though in recent comfort, gifts, activities, the sneaking night walk, it was still all the actions done to a prisoner of war. Alexander knew that; and it was everything George did to him that reminded the boy, from telling him how actual prisoners were treated to the loose bounds on his wrists, _ you are not free, you are not free, you are not free. _

“You’re thinking quite loudly.” Alexander turned his head to face George again. He looked regretfully at the boy’s face, to his wet hair spilling onto his collarbones and into the surface of the water. His broad shoulders connecting to his chest and abdomen, slightly skewed from the water rippling along the top. His eyes stopped there, afraid to travel lower. 

“It does not matter.” George said, remorse deep within his voice. He opened the shaving box, taking out the simple blade and the cream, and moved to stand behind Alexander. George gently shifted the boy’s head back, laying it to rest at the rim of the tub. Alexander looked up at the general with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open as George moved to smear the cream along his jaw and neck until the hair stopped. 

“How does such a small man like you grow so much hair?” George asked, lathering the cream into the skin, assuring he had gotten most of the skin he needed to shave with the blade. 

“How does an old fox such as yourself have such steady hands?” Alexander croaked, his throat hyper-extended backwards. George could only smile back as he took a cloth to wipe off the cream from his hands and reach for the blade. 

“Now be careful what you say, my boy,” George teased, lifting the blade to rest right against the prominent heartbeat within the vein of Alexander’s neck, “for this will be right here, and I will not hesitate.” 

It was obvious his intentions were all well within reason, but George added a smile at the end of the sentence to assure he did not truly mean his words. Alexander only glimmered back and shut his mouth, letting the commander work, for if he spoke there was sure to be blood against his neck. 

It was a slow process, though George did not mind. He turned down offers to have maids shave his own face, for he was well qualified to do it himself, and the sound of the blade dragging against fresh skin calmed him from any stray thoughts. The intensity of focus towards Alexander’s neck was so large that George had completely forgotten of the bareness underneath the water, keeping his eyes trained on the blade gliding to remove the facial hair off of the boy. 

Once he was done, George stepped back to admire his work, the now clean shaven face of Alexander making him look much younger than he was not only twenty minutes ago. George gave the blade to Alexander for him to rinse off and put back in the box, and he walked back to his chair, picking up the journal and returning it next to the shaving box. 

“Let me get the maids and a cloth for you to dry.” He said and walked out of the door, side eyeing in the direction of the sentries, only to find them missing from their post. He stopped in the hallway, shutting the bathing door behind him and staring at the empty corridor. George felt his face twist in confusion, his eyes focused on the spaces where the guards usually stood. Where were they? He had not dismissed them from their post when he had taken Alexander to clean, and the shift change wasn’t for another two hours, when the boy would get his dinner and be told to rest. 

He had put the thought aside as he walked to the maidens room, where multiple women stayed to serve the tavern. They all stood in awe at him, for George had never gone to their room to request a favor. He always summoned the women to him. 

He grabbed a cloth and requested them to meet in the bathing room to clean up after Alexander once they had both left, and gave them all a warm smile before walking out. 

The sentries were back at their posts, staring straight ahead at the barren wooden wall lit with candles. 

George paused, noticing the guards looking at him before stepping into the bathing room again. He had not bothered to pay attention to the new faces of the guards who had switched shifts, when the shift change had not been scheduled. 

Alexander stood by the tub in full bareness, once again his back to George. In a way, he thought the boy was toying with him; so obviously flaunting his body but in such a way that wouldn’t be too obvious and make him think twice about the actions. 

“Your cloth.” He held it out to Alexander while he glanced away and to the side. George heard footsteps come close as he took the cloth from his hands. 

Before the boy could step away, George grabbed his hand and pulled him close, still looking away as he whispered in Alexander’s ears. 

“Do not believe we are off the hook. We are still being watched, my boy.” 

-

John Hewlitt felt his hands tremble beneath the ends of his overcoat. He could see the swirls of his breath in the bitter air within the dimly lit tent, along with the other sentries who had gathered in the small tent located on the border of the encampment. 

“Where is he?” John hissed out, wrapping the overcoat around him tighter along his abdomen. “It’s too bloody cold for me to be here instead of the tavern.”  
  


“Welcome to the main camp, bastard.” One of the unfamiliar sentries retorted, who had not gotten a shift in days. 

“He was due to arrive twenty minutes ago, along with the promise of our extra pay.”

“Extra pay?” Abbott scoffed as he sat on his stool nearest to the candle light. “Extra blankets would have been a better promise.”

There were currently five of them in the small tent, which was way too small for John’s liking. His mother would fuss about the conditions in the camp, but John knew her poor soul would prefer to rest in the peace of Delaware. 

“We should have gotten him to arrive here first.” The unfamiliar guard leaned against the pole dug deep into the dirt within the Green of the Morristown center. “All we do is stand on watch for a prisoner who the general trusts more than his own men. We need not stand watch no longer for our fortunate investor.” 

“Investor?” John asked, looking up from the ground at the man. “This is not some gamble, he asked us to do as he said for money. We are of no use to him other than our job.”

“John is right.” Abbott interjected. 

“See?” John lifted his hands. “Thank you, Abbott.” 

The sentry didn’t respond. 

John’s job was very clear, and he went through the instructions within his head once more. He memorized them like a bible verse, or a drinking song that the army had been singing over and over into the night while John was on Hamilwatch. 

That is what the sentries have nicknamed their shifts and posts; on a night while Abbott was drunk out of his breeches and spilled the ale out on to the floor. 

The tent opened and a gust of cold air filled John’s nose, making his face twist up in confusion on who could enter. If it was a mere militia man he would make a simple excuse of discussing shift changes, for their attire was very different from a standard military uniform. It would not be the first time they had been caught during a secret meeting with the other guards. 

John turned, ready to spit out the excuse, however he physically relaxed when he saw the face of Joseph Reed walk into the small space. His hair was a mess, skewed out of his ribbon and stuck to his face. Conveniently, his collar could not be dragged high enough to hide the bruises shaped like a mouth along his neck. 

“You are late because you got busy using your prick?” The nameless sentry asked, narrowing his eyes at the officers neck. Reed closed the flaps of the tent behind him, fastening them to the strings and facing the five men, including John. 

“I apologize.” He simply said, crossing his arms over his uniform. “Let us get this over with. Washington expects a camp report on his desk by midnight.” 

Reed dove his hands into the satchel that was slung over his shoulder, taking out some continental notes mixed with pounds and began to pass them out to each of the men. When he reached John and Abbott, he steadfast, holding his hands behind him. 

“Report your shift first, Hewlitt.” 

John took in a breath. 

“After your meeting, Washington took Hamilton out of his cell, guiding him to a bath. Through the door, there was no talk of the suggestion Hamilton made to the commander. There was no sound of a scratching quill, and no ink or parchment brought into the room, meaning that Washington must not have told the prisoner about his successful intel to bring in a representative from congress.” John stepped back, allowing Abbott to take over. 

“We listened intently for more intelligence, however there was a significant amount of silence before Washington began to read one of the books he had brought for Hamilton. It must have been a personal journal of his, reading in political nature. The general shaved Hamilton, and they exchanged brief banter before we changed shifts to the sentries there now.” 

“They have already given their report.” Reed said, handing out the rest of the bills to John and Abbott. 

“This is only half of our pay!” John protested, counting through the notes. 

“And you will get the other half later. I cannot afford to pay all my spies upfront.” Reed lifted his satchel and slung it to the ground, now empty. 

“It is because you are using your money to pay pence whores within the brothel.” The unnamed sentry scoffed. “Be careful officer, you may contract an illness if you continue, not to mention an official dismissal from the army at Washington’s decree.” 

“If he discovers our meetings and plans, we will all be dismissed, possibly hung for treason.” He said. Reed was calm while the sentries tucked away their bank notes, the shuffling of paper being heard within the small tent. 

“Continue your posts. We cannot risk our general letting Hamilton bend him. He might not see it, but the prisoner appears to be more persuasive than we originally thought. Double the information I receive, and you will get double this month’s pay.” Reed paused, looking between the men around him. “John, tell him of our general’s intentions as well.”

That made John’s interest pique, and he leaned forward as Reed continued to recite the next couple sundown’s plans, the sentry listening intently as he held on to his sword to his right hip. 

-

Alexander was restless. 

The new books from George had lifted his spirit, now acquiring four leather bound parchment and switching between them frequently. Alexander had finished the political book that night he received the gift aside candlelight, until the wax almost disappeared to the wick. He then started the pages reading into trading tobacco and sugar within Mount Vernon, Alexander praying to the God that he could understand most of the trading language used. It reminded him of the trading he was in charge of during the Royal Navy fleet days. 

However, the reading was not making Alexander restless. He loved to see the words scribbled on to the pages, written in George’s own handwriting rather than the simple print he was used to within the scripture and Common Sense. 

What made him restless was the absence of the general within his quarters. 

Given, it had only been a single day after the bath, the reading session making Alexander miss George’s voice reading through the pages of books. Three of them currently sat stacked on the floor beside his cot, while the Mount Vernon export journal was in his hands as he walked in circles around the main space of the room. 

Alexander checked the silver pocket watch once more, which was now always attached to his body, and noted the time. Dinner is to be expected soon, and if he had lost any more weight than he already had, he might find his bones being bent easily to break. He could only imagine what the soldiers felt, and then be expected to grab a musket to fight for their newfound country. 

It almost made Alexander want to fight the fight. Almost. 

So here he was, his feet beginning to hurt as he paced, feeling restless from not any human contact. 

The door opened to reveal a tall sentry, his hair back in a neat ribbon and his hat perfectly seated on his head. Alexander stopped pacing, placing his fingers between the pages and closing it within his hands. 

"We can hear you pacing from outside. Stop it." The sentry stated in a dull tone, setting down a plate of food and drink on the floor. Alexander turned up his eyebrow, straightening his posture. 

"I do not have to listen to you." 

"And yet, you are a prisoner to His Excellency, Washington." The sentry turned to him. "Who is using your intelligence to better his own war effort. That would be treason to the British crown, would it not?" 

Alexander held his lips tight. 

"Using me?" 

"See," the man crossed his arms, one of his hands landing conveniently landing on the sword on his right hip, "the general only sees you as a pawn. He intends to trade you for information, knowing that Cornwallis is after you. All these parental actions of affection is just another war strategy to turn you to our side." 

Alexander was speechless. 

"Nothing to say, you lobster back?" The sentry mocked him, adjusting his stature taller. "I am not surprised."

The man walked out, snickering to the other sentry as the door closed, and unfortunately, locked. Only one sentence kept repeating in Alexander's head. 

_ The general only sees you as a pawn. _

Alexander didn't bother to pay attention to the page he was on before he let the book slip out of his hands, hearing the thud of the leather against the floorboards. 

_ The general only sees you as a pawn. _

He felt his feet move to the cot, laying down on the uncomfortable sheet and facing the wall, lifting his legs to his chest. 

It was an amazing play on George‐ no, _ General Washington's _part. The commander of the revolution must play his moves smart in this deranged game of chess against the King, and using Alexander to only better his effort and make the general's job easier. War is war, and the revolution could have been the best example of this statement. 

The worst part was, Alexander began to fall for the play. The play of General Washington, and not _ George _, the small but influential tobacco farmer from Virginia. This whole operation was not of George, but of a smart leader.

He thought back on why he had joined the British in the first place. His only friend had joined, and he, giving little reasoning to his enlistment. The Royal Navy had given little push to allow him to join the Crown army, but the ideals were still there. The colonies were beginning to rise up, and Alexander felt it his duty to put them down. Stationed in Albany, he could remember the rage he felt towards the colonies; resisting their only support system, despite the fact that it was a tiny island across the sea. The Crown was in debt, due to the colonies fault in the previous war against the French, it only made sense to tax the people involved. 

And yet, Alexander felt his core unravel at the idea that the colonies could have been right. 

In Common Sense, Paine had made a very compelling argument against the government of the King and monarchy, pinned against a true government of the people. He continued to write about how if a government had become so oppressive against its own people and itself, it was the duty of the people to separate from such corrupt power, and it was exactly what George was intending to do. Alexander had a lack of information about the refusal that the King had given the colonies when he had enlisted; the refusal of representation in government. 

The army was just trying to make their voices heard over the screaming and bloodshed throughout each battle in the colonies. 

Alexander clenched his muscles, pulling himself closer into a ball on the uncomfortable cot. His mind was reeling, going over every piece of information on both sides within this blasted war. He itched to write down the thoughts he had flowing in his consciousness, yearning for an ink, parchment and quill to organize his mind. 

Alexander's hands began to tremble, and he felt for the silver pocket watch, desperate to hold on to the metal. It was finally in his hands, and his reflection was shaky on the surface as he tried to calm himself. 

Popping open the casing, he ran his fingers over the engraving again. He felt his stomach turn at the action, flipping in his abdomen. The perfect script stared back at him, unchanging while his eyes started to well up with tears. 

The door unlatched, making Alexander jump to close and hide the watch in his pocket, and wipe his eyes quickly to rid the blur in his vision. He had not turned towards the door as it opened, for hearing the heavy footsteps made Alexander guess who was now standing in the small space. 

“Alexander?” George called out, the door shutting behind him. He refused to move from the spot he was on the cot, facing away from the general and adamantly not averting his eyes from the wood in front of his face. 

Alexander kept silent, not moving to show he was awake. He prayed he would seem asleep. 

“I know you are not asleep. You have not even touched your food or drink.” 

Alexander cursed, but stayed facing the wall. The steps of George walked deeper into the room, closer to the cot, but stopped approximately halfway. 

“You dropped my journal.” George must have leaned down and picked up the book, for his steps inched closer to the cot and the thud of the leather echoed as it hit the other stack of books. 

“Come, get up.” George’s voice was tired and soft, no edge within his words, making it more of a suggestion. “I have a small trip planned for us through the town.” 

“No.” Alexander said adamantly, staying still as he could, tensing every muscle in his body. 

“This wasn’t a request.” George sighed, the edge slipping back into his words. 

“You are not my general, and I am not your militiamen. You cannot order me around.” Alexander shut his eyes tight, afraid of what was to come. He felt hurt, from the realization of he was only used and none of this was real. It was a luxurious imprisonment, however, it was all that it was; an imprisonment. 

“Then we must do this the hard way.” 

Alexander opened his eyes in a rush, but before he could move, the strong hands of Washington grabbed his sides, lifting him off the cot and on to the floor, knocking over the stack of books. His first instinct was to kick, and when he did, his foot smacked into the metal bar underneath the cot, causing him to cry out in pain. George wrapped his arms around Alexander, grabbing his flinging hands and immediately binding them with a rope at record speed. As the general tied the final knot, Alexander hissed at the tightness of the rope, struggling to get out. 

He kicked again, and George held his body tight against his own will as he furiously struggled against the general’s strength. 

“Do _ not _make this harder than it has to be.” George hissed in Alexander’s ear, but that only seemed to make him angrier, attempting to get out of the bonds. He opened his mouth to scream, but before he could use his voice, a sudden thick cloth was shoved into his mouth, effectively silencing him. George reached behind his head and tied the cloth, keeping the gag secure. Alexander was taken back to Trenton, three weeks ago or so, where he was bound and gagged for days at a time. He lost the urge to fight in the blink of an eye, and Alexander relaxed against the vice grip of George. 

“I was intending to gag you before we stepped out,” George spoke in his ear, louder. “But doing it by force pains me greatly, I must admit to you, my boy.” 

_ My boy; _ another reminder that Alexander was just a possession amongst the world. 

The general forced him into the heavy petticoat and boots quickly before opening the door and pushing Alexander out of it. His feet stumbled together, and if it was not for the strong hands holding his arms and sides, he would have fallen on his face.

Through the hair blocking his vision, Alexander could have sworn he saw the sentries smiling at each other; a villainous action that made his brain light up in fear. 

The walk out of the tavern was difficult. His legs were forced to walk down the stairs quicker than he was able to keep up with, causing many stumbles and grunts from Alexander through the gag. George stayed calm and continued to put up a stoic face, dealing him with a strong hand and force. 

When they reached outside the tavern into the cold air once again, Alexander attempted to stop to take in the sky and town before him, but George did not hesitate to continue pushing him down the stairs and onto the street. 

“There is no time for this, Alexander.” George sounded borderline angry, contrasting with his face, still and calculating. 

As they made their way down the street in a rush to pass the sentries, Alexander began to feel a rise of panic in his stomach. This was not a sight seeing trip, he figured. He walked to the other side of the street than the last strolled on, to a darker and abandoned part of town. George continued to push him along, Alexander doing his best to keep up, walking almost twice as fast as the general due to his stature and tiredness. He had not eaten since that morning either, causing him to feel his hands trembling on their own accord through the bonds. 

George stopped him when they reached an empty house at the end of the street, no sentry in sight. There was a single window lit with light, near the back of the house, the reflection casting shadows on the nearby hill. The house was white, an odd choice for color, the brick chipping in places. The chimney was letting smoke out into the air. 

George pushed him towards the front door and opened it, letting Alexander walk into the narrow hallway as the general shut the door behind them quickly, cape swishing as he latched the door locked. He forced his hands among Alexander once more, guiding him to a single chair in the middle of an empty room which held the fireplace. 

George forced Alexander down onto the chair, tying his arms and legs in a similar fashion not too unlike in Trenton. Alexander felt panic rise in his throat like bile, making him remember all those nights spent alone in his divot in the earth. 

The general removed the gag, which caused Alexander to spit out the cloth bits from his mouth and cough at the fresh air. 

"You _ bastard!" _ He felt himself scream, struggling within the bonds to move. George rushed forward to clamp his hand over his mouth, effectively shutting Alexander's mouth. 

"If you make too much noise, the sentries will hear us. Shut your damn mouth, or quietly complain, son." George lifted his hand off of Alexander's mouth slowly, prepared to slam it back if he screamed again. 

"I'm not your son." He hissed out, "And I am not yours." 

George stepped back, silent as he processed the words. Alexander gritted his teeth, waiting for a retort, but none came. 

"Why are we here?" Alexander still felt an edge in his voice, primarily due to the fact that he was still bound instead of being able to roam free. 

"This is the only place I could find away from the guards." George said, exasperated. His hands went to undo the cape over his navy coat, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. 

"So you can finally tell me your true plans?" Alexander tested the bonds again, like many times before this singular situation. He was sure there would be bruises. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You heard me, _ general." _Alexander was not taking lies anymore. He needed the truth. 

"No," George turned, facing Alexander completely, "what plans?" 

"I know your play here." He started, slowly. "I know I am just a pawn for you. I have known this for quite some time, I have even told you this when we first arrived in this wretched town. It was my own unconscious error to assume you have changed your ways, to expect you would think me useful otherwise, such as giving me credit for my own thoughts and recommendations. Not to mention that I had assumed you cared about my well being, or even me as a person." 

"Alexander." George rubbed his eyes. "You have a brilliant mind, one I want to get to know better. It was an early intention to only use you for military strategy, but plans change, son. I want you to join our effort. I have been doing my best to show that-" 

"I am your pawn!" Alexander interrupted the general, not caring of the possible repercussions. "You will turn me over to Cornwallis the very _ second _ I am no longer of use! You will use me for information, for battle plans, then beat me into making me unable to spread the information on to the British and then trade me for useless footmen who aren't even worth a _ fourth _of my intelligence." 

"You are not my pawn!" George snapped back. His face was furious, exposing the fragile temper Alexander could tell the general had worked so hard to maintain hidden from Congress and the army. 

"You, Alexander," he started back up, stepping closer to the chair Alex was bound in, "are something I have been looking for in my men for _ years. _I have been searching for you. I will not trade you son, I need you alive!" 

"I'm not your son!" Alexander felt rage in his veins, pumping through his whole body, pushing adrenaline to his brain. "You don't need me alive. The sentries told me-" 

"Whatever you are about to say, _ think about," _George cut him off with a stern voice, conveniently taking another step forward. "We are being watched by the damn guards, Alexander. They are spying on our conversations." 

"I have seen no evidence besides your written word! How am I supposed to trust you?" 

"Because _ I need you alive!" _

George's interjection stunned Alexander to silence. He had gotten impossibly close, now within the personal space of Alexander, and it caused him to lean back away from the general in his chair. It effectively was not enough with George's large stature. 

"Then, _ prove it." _

It took all of a moment for George to snap forward and grab Alexander's head in his. 

"Do it." His neck was craned upwards at the large man holding his skull with two hands. "Snap my neck, _ sir. _ Prove that you are only putting up an act for the army and _ kill me." _

George's eyes were full of fire from what Alexander could see. His mouth was slightly agape, barely visible in his vision from the general being so close to his face. Alexander could feel the hot breath rolling down his face from George's mouth, making him aware of their proximity. 

"I need you alive." 

It was barely a whisper, causing Alexander to release his feelings of anger like a wave rolling over stones, and leaned forward to close the space. 

George's lips against his felt cold and chapped. It was a quick kiss, one a husband would share with a wife before leaving for the fields, or a brother-sister cheek peck before a parting for a long time adventure. 

It was over before Alexander could even remember the feeling. 

"I have a wife." George said, breathless and so oblivious to the situation. 

"I don't care." 

The kiss resumed, easier and less awkward this time. The endeavor of this trip into an abandoned town house had changed like a flip of a coin, turning from a pissing match into a twisted sign of affection.

George continued to hold Alexander's face still as he moved his chapped lips against the boy's. Alexander felt his cock twitch in interest, but willed it to subside as he focused on the warmth attached to his lips. George loosened his grip against his head, letting a hand slip to Alexander's throat. The general applied slight pressure, a warning for what was to come. 

"Do it." Alexander whispered. 

He gasped when the hand properly gripped his throat, causing George to slip his tongue inside Alexander's mouth. The sensation made him dizzy as the tongue seemed to dance across his teeth first, then slip deeper to intertwine with his own tongue. Just as George twisted his head slightly to the left, his grip hardened against Alexander's throat. 

He gasped, to no avail. The air to his lungs was not fully cut off, causing his head to fog and his own mouth to relax as George continued to kiss him, seemingly harder now. It was a quick paced kiss, and Alexander tilted his head back as his mind began to only focus on the lack of air to his brain. He coughed, the general releasing his grip and pulling away. 

George began to kiss his cheek, his jaw, his neck as Alexander heaved air into his lungs, hard to catch his breath. 

"I've wanted to do that since I tied that black petticoat against your throat." George sighed into Alexander's neck, causing him to groan out in pleasure. The general sucked in a spot just behind his ear, sure to leave a mark by morning. 

"My boy," George sighed right against his ear, "tell me I am not using you." 

Alexander hesitated, looking down at George. They connected eyes for the first time that night, directly. The general's eyes were blown wide, filled with anxiety and cautiousness. 

He almost answered, before he heard a pounding at the door. 

They both jerked, but due to Alexander's bounds he only slightly shifted in his chair, while George moved back feet within seconds. He adjusted his coat and took in a deep breath before stepping out into the hall.

Just like that, the moment ended, fizzing away the tension of the kiss.

Alexander groaned and let his head fall forward. He began to think. 

He had instigated the kiss, yes. That was his own mistake. Once the situation had escalated, he knew that George had started to use his power over Alexander. The use of bounds, nowhere to run, unable to defend himself if he had changed his mind. 

It wasn't as if he wanted the commander of the free world to stop. 

George came back in, and didn't look up as he picked up his coat and once again left without a word being said, let alone a fleeing glance back at Alexander. Sentries filled into the room, causing Alexander to panic. 

"What are you doing?" He gritted out as the guards grabbed him off of the chair. They hoisted him up and on his feet, causing Alexander to stumble a little before he was being escorted to the door. 

"What is going on!" He yelled. Alexander was forced out into the night, the cool air feeling like knives against his skin. The guards said nothing, but stopped before a man standing at the street just before the house. 

Alexander flailed and kicked, attempting the struggle to escape the sentries holding him in place. 

"Now now, boy." The man adjusted his coat, bringing out his close fist. "You're being transferred. Somewhere you can't find out." 

The last thing Alexander could remember was a sharp pain in his jaw before the world went black.


	3. Act Two, Scene Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long period of time before I may be able to update again. It will be worth the wait, however, I can promise that much to you guys. One more scene in this act, and then the story will progress further! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support this story has received so far. I cannot say that more enough. 39 kudos and almost 500 hits? Mind blowing to me. I thought this was just some silly story I had too much hope for and too much drive to plan, research and finish. Thank you again, everyone.

Reed faced George with purpose in the small study, filled with books and a small desk lodged in the corner. It was on the upstairs floor within the tavern, lit with candles far from the leather bound parchment to keep them from lighting aflame during their conversation. 

"Why have you brought me here?" George asked, crossing his arms below the cape. He was assured Alexander would return to his room with the sentries guiding him, giving Reed time to walk with George to the tavern, insisting to come at once. 

"Before I answer, sir, may I ask why you brought the prisoner to an abandoned house?" 

George hesitated. He had not known the sentries followed him to the house; he was sure they were alone when they walked into the space. 

Not to mention the borderline sinful actions that had taken place within the empty sitting room with the fire. 

George could still feel the warm lips against his own, and the sound of Alexander's moans were echoing in his brain. He had been commanding, demanding George to choke him and kiss him breathless. His mind was jumbled on the reason why he had indulged, seemingly unable to resist Alexander's mouth like tobacco.

"It was a simple interrogation. It went nowhere." He decided to answer. It was not entirely a lie, George thought. 

Reed nodded. 

"You never told anyone you would conduct one." 

"I did not feel the need." George sighed. "I am the commander, I can do as I please when it comes to prisoners. Now, why did you assure me this was increasingly important?" 

Reed reluctantly took a pause before answering, looking down at the ground to not meet the general's gaze.

"We seem to have caught a spy, sir." He murmured to the floor.

George's heart seemed to stop within his chest. 

"Elaborate."

"This was found on a mere foot soldier." Reed reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded letter, opening it and handing it to George. As he read through the parchment, it seemed to disclose their exact location, their dire need of supplies, major officers in charge and the underground dealings of continental dollars between men to express how Congress was essentially out of money to supply the officers and soldiers. Their pay had been frozen for months. George kept quiet as Reed continued. 

"The sentries scouting the border of camp saw him as a deserter, running off into the woods to the east. This parchment was found in his coat when he was captured." 

"This isn't forged?" George wasn't sure how he managed to ask the question, but with the sentries being suspicious and spying on his conversations, he assumed the right to be skeptical about the authenticity of the letter. 

"This isn't, sir. The soldier confessed." 

George looked up to see Reed with an emotionless face, adding to his suspicion. 

"Let me see him." He ordered.

"Yes, your Excellency." 

Reed seemed to have an edge to the title, which was nothing new to George. The officer had always doubted him, and this was no different. 

They walked out of the study and down the stairs, past the main hall of the tavern where men sat drinking, and into the cellar, being guarded by sentries at the entrance. Reed pulled out a key to unlock the door; he must have gotten permission from the tavern owners. As he stepped inside, the general followed down the steps, slowly as if not to fall to the stone floor. Barrels of ale sat stacked on top of each other to the walls, the damp air filling into George's lungs. It felt dank, making his head dizzy and fog slightly. 

He reached the floor, following Reed between the barrels to the corner of the cellar, where a man sat tied to a post. It reminded George of when he had first seen Alexander in Trenton; the event seeming years ago. The memory made him shiver. 

He was on his knees, hands tied to the post, slouching forward as his hair covered his face from view. Candlelight was dim within the cellar, the wax only freshly lit. The man was without shoes, or an overcoat, for that matter. Being under dressed in a place like this must have made him uncomfortable. 

The man looked up at them, Reed moving forward to pull the gag from his mouth. 

"Let's keep this simple." He said, stepping back and resuming his post behind George. 

He took in the sight of the man before speaking, deciding a course of action. Violence on his part was not required, unlike when Alexander was first captured. 

"You are a British spy." George said, more of a statement than a question. The man merely nodded, the shadows of a single candle dancing across his face as he moved. It was then that George noticed the black eye and blood smeared across his face. 

"How long have you been in the ranks?" 

"In Princeton...I stole a man's clothes that I killed." The man's voice was dry and scratchy. "I joined the walk here..." 

George listened as the man trailed off. When the man didn't continue, he took the letter within his hands again, holding it up for the soldier to see. 

"Do you have anything to verify this handwriting is yours?" 

The man shook his head. 

George sighed and stepped back, folding the parchment back into his coat. The soldier remained with his head down, afraid to look him in the eye. 

"Are you under any orders from general Cornwallis?" George asked. 

"No. He was talking of a prisoner that you were harboring, but never mentioned a reconoscence mission to retrieve him." 

So, Cornwallis was informing his dogs about Alexander, however no active orders have been executed other than the second scrimmage after Trenton.  _ Good,  _ George thought. 

"Did anyone else join you on the walk here?" He asked, but got no reply. This soldier was not the only British spy within his ranks. 

He sighed before turning away, Reed's eyes following his movements intently.

"I must go to draft a letter for an execution. It will take place at dawn." George began to walk towards the stairs to the tavern, before Reed called out after him. 

"Sir?" He asked. "What of the boy?" 

"Do what you must." 

George reached the top of the stairs when he heard the man scream, but blocked the sound from his mind as he shut the door to the cellar and turned to his personal quarters upstairs, ready to draft letters to hang a noose in the city center. This must be broadcast for the entire army to see if they had any hope of getting rid of the spies. 

He considered stopping before Alexander's door, going inside to apologize, or to talk about what had happened in the Morristown home. He hesitated, and decided against it, giving the boy space. 

There was work to be done. 

-

George awoke to a knock to his chamber door, the quiet fist must belonging to Greene. 

“Enter.” He said, shifting up on to his hands and swinging his legs over the side of the feather cot. His head pained him, from staying up deep into the night to draft orders. The door creaked open, Greene stepping inside, fully dressed in the official officer’s uniform and boots. It was customary during a morning execution. 

“I see we have a show this morning, your Excellency. Good day.” He bowed slightly, showing nothing but respect and admiration within his voice. 

“A good day it is.” George sighed. He had always given affection towards Greene, a fateful friend and officer within his ranks. He needed more men of the sort. 

“I believe it was Officer Reed who had done the capturing.” Greene closed the door behind him. “Seems peculiar, how the sentries went to him first, and not you, sir.” 

“Indeed. He must have been near the site. I had other matters to attend to.” George stood, shifting his weight onto his legs before heading to the desk. He glanced over the parchment holding the execution order, seeing his own scrawl and signature at the bottom. Something he had practiced so much, held little meaning against a death march of a mere boy. 

“The rope has been hung, sir. We only await you.” Greene stated, gravely. Even he knew of the dire situation of executions, especially between a spy. 

“I will be out soon. Give me time to dress and prepare.” George waved off Greene, allowing the man to step outside once again.” 

George let his hands run over his over shirt, pulling it above his head before dressing in his most professional attire. 

The issue with Alexander had remained on his mind since the night before, seemingly seeping into his personal journal as he let his thoughts flow free. The boy was an uncontrollable musket, firing at unpredictable intervals without given time to reload the gunpowder. It drove George mad, and the lack of trust Alexander showed when given a sliver of information contradicting his ideals infuriated the general. After all George had done for the boy, he was ready to turn against him at the flip of a coin. 

He buttoned his overcoat, the Navy blue only have been worn few before this occasion. It was his neatly kept overcoat, with the buttons still shimmering with gold and the white as clean as the snow outside. George slipped on the cape and boots quickly, smoothing out the uniform before stepping out of his quarters. He made sure to grab the parchment orders before closing his quarter’s door. 

George was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice that no guards were posted at Alexander’s door. 

He made his way down the steps and out of the tavern, following the street to the Green where the camp was currently set up. From where George walked, his feet sunk into the snow as he made his way to the largest tree in the camp, where he could already see the rope being hung. It seemed to sway in the wind. 

As he reached the Green, an ominous feeling was in the air as the soldiers gathered around in a circle around the tree. A single horse was being steadfast, without a rider, under the rope of the noose. Greene turned towards George, a solemn look spread across his face. Knox turned and looked the same, aware of what was to happen. 

George had finally reached the throng of soldiers, walking slowly as men parted to make way for the general. It was times like this he could feel true power flow through his veins, fueling his steps and demeanor of perfect poise. The soldiers looked down at the ground out of respect, and George gazed upon their faces with intent of finding conspirators, but found none staring at him in the face. 

A man in a black cloak, face covered in dust, stepped in front of George, holding out his hand; a silent request for the document to be read aloud. The general pulled out the parchment, hand shaking as he transferred the order. 

The black cloaked man took the paper in haste and stepped next to the empty horse. 

George made his way to stand next to Greene, the fresh snow crunching under his boots in the wavering silence. 

“It must be done.” George said, turning to see the spy being escorted out of a nearby tent, bound and blindfolded, with sentries at his side and shoving him to a small stool next to the horse. 

“I know, sir.” Greene refused to look away from the traitor. “You need not justify your actions.” 

“I must.” George murmured back, leaning into Greene’s side. “Many of the soldiers will find this a gruesome death. A lesson must be served to them.” 

Greene could only nod as the spy was guided to the stool and hoisted up on to the horse, sitting in the saddle with a stiff posture. A single guard leaned to take the noose in hand, George intently watching as the rope was hung around the spy’s neck and tightened to fit. It made him shiver, having nothing to do with the cold. The guards stepped down from the horse and began to make way for the horse to run as the man in the black cloak began to read the parchment. 

“The accused,” he started, “Camden Stowe, has been charged with the treason of espionage against the new America.” 

The spy, blindfolded with a white cloth, remained stiff as a single tear slid down his cheek through the material. 

“Under the orders of General George Washington, appointed by the continental Congress of the United Colonies, the accused is instructed to be hung on this day, January twenty seventh, 1777, the year of our Lord.” A shivering pause from the executioner. “If the accused does not die a quick death, the sentries may pull down on the convicted, allowing mercy.” 

The man turned towards the spy, calling up to him. 

“If the convicted has any last words, he may say them now.” 

“Long live the King!” Stowe yelled after a pause, voice cracking through more tears. 

Suddenly, soldiers began to cry out. 

“Burn, you redcoat!” 

“I’ll see you in hell!” 

Before any more shouts could be thrown, the man in the black cloak slapped the ass of the horse, causing the mare to run forward at a record speed, soldiers running to the side to get out of the animal’s way. It cried as it ran, causing Stowe to drop fast, the weight of his own lean body pulling him down and contorting his neck sideways. George stared at the struggling body, as Stowe continued to flail and kick, attempting to get out of the choke hold.  _ An unsuccessful attempt of the damned _ , George thought. 

When the spy had not stopped struggling under the hand of the noose, the sentries walked over, taking their time to grab the boy’s legs. People all around George still looked with anguish as the guards pulled Stowe’s legs down with a jerk, causing his neck to snap completely and his body stilled. 

A woman somewhere could be heard crying out in horror, and only then did George notice that the civilians had come to observe the hanging as well. He looked upon the small group of city folk, where a woman was now on her knees, her dress coated in snow. A man stood next to her, rubbing her shoulders as she continued to cry into her hands. 

“It seems they are not accustomed to such traditions.” Greene said, turning to George while he kept staring at the poor girl. 

“This is war.” The general stated simply. “It is not attractive to the common folk.” 

“Aye.” Knox agreed, also turning towards the woman. 

Suddenly, bells could be heard down the main street, along with hard hoof beats making their way down the dirt road connecting to the Green. George hesitated to grab the sword on his hips; bells meant that a newcomer was heading into town. The orders of the border guards were to ring the bells upon an uninformed guest. 

George forgot about the man swinging in the wind and ran to the street; Knox and Greene not far behind, sentries trailing behind them as well. The brigade entering the town consisted of only one horse drawn carriage, seemingly floating down the dirt road towards George and his officers. 

“Is that who I think it is?” Knox asked, taking off his hat. 

“I doubt John Adams  _ himself  _ would show up, you twit.” Greene scoffed. George did not mind the banter; it kept his friends close, and made them better teammates. It was only when it resulted in a drunken brawl that the general was forced to step in on his own accord. 

“John Adams would have a parade welcoming him into the town, not a simple carriage.” George remarked, staring at the horses trotting towards them. The carriage was stopped mere feet from the Green, before the driver of the horses stepped off the carriage to open the door. 

“I bet you three Continental dollars that it is John Adams.” Knox was adamant in his claim, it seems. 

“Do you even have three Continental dollars?” Greene laughed, but stopped when the carriage door was fully open to reveal the representative from Congress. 

A tall, strong man stepped out, similar hair to Alexander and wearing a simple brown coat over white breeches. It was obvious he was in Philadelphia recently, for his poise in his stature signified authority only the Congress could have rubbed off on the man. 

As he walked closer to George, he heard Knox swear under his breath, and Greene note of how much he was owed. 

“Welcome to Morristown.” George held out his hand for the man to shake, who gladly took it as a sign to introduce himself. 

“Selah Strong. The representative of Congress, as you requested of John Adams.” Strong pulled out a sealed parchment, and sure enough, George saw the reflection of Adams’ seal against the fold. Opening the parchment, his eye line first glanced to the signature at the bottom, prominently showing that the president of the Congress had indeed, approved Selah Strong’s passage through New Jersey.

“We welcome you to our camp, Mr. Strong.” George shared a small smile with the man before he also shook hands with Knox and Greene. 

“I am most honored to be your obedient servant, your Excellency, sir.” 

“This is Nathanael Greene and Henry Knox, my most trusted military adviser and officer, along with my chief artillery officer.” George guestered to the two men at his side, who also greeted Strong with respect. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, men.” Strong turned towards the makeshift gallows, noticing the gathering of the town folk along with the soldiers, all watching the four men in the street. The hanging body seemed to be forgotten to the men gathered. 

“I missed the main event, it seems.” The man sighed, taking in the Green encampment. Strong pulled out a simple leather book. It was new, for there was no notable crease along the spine. He had also pulled out a thin piece of what looked like coal, smudging on his fingers as he opened the book to it’s first page and began to scribble down words. 

“You need not for ink and quill?” Greene asked, leaning forward and glancing within the book’s pages. 

“Greene, please, do not pry.” George sighed at his men. 

“It is no problem, your Excellency.” Strong assured him, looking up from the book. “It is only a simple trick my father had taught me. It is a mere outline, later on when I have more time I will trace over the coal with ink, making it truly legible to the reader. The coal helps me write while I walk.” 

George was impressed of the man, a well collected personality as well as a smart wit. George could feel the aura of Alexander flow off of the man, but he shook his head to rid of the thought. He must focus on the task at hand, and not of the boy who he had missed being in his arms, or lips locked to his. 

“May I show you around, Mr. Strong?” George offered, noticing the sentries taking down the body of Stowe after letting the body hang for minutes at a time, a reminder to the army on which side of the war was right. 

“That would be ideal, general.” Strong closed the book in his hands, and turned towards the main camp, holding out an empty hand to the soldiers. “Lead the way, sir.”

George nodded and walked to the Green once more, Strong tailing next to him, following at a similar pace. The general ordered the soldiers to return to their posts in a loud, booming voice, to see them all scramble back into their tents, or the sentries returning towards the tavern. Greene and Knox shared a look of impression, admiring the power of the commander in chief. They trailed behind the representative, following them to the center of camp. 

“The main encampment of our soldiers are here, in what the town folk call the Green.” George started. “This is where we conduct minor drills, feed and clothe our main force.” 

“Is this the only force you have here?” Strong asked, scribbling more notes within his book. 

“There are more men encamped just outside of town, but not much. Our estimate is around one thousand.” 

"Why so low in numbers?" 

"Many of them refuse to enlist." George explained. "They have not been paid in months, some years, and they are tired of this war without receiving compensation."

“It isn’t enough, Mr. Strong.” Greene spoke up. Strong turned around to take in more of the men, all of the soldiers either walking around slowly, huddled in their overcoats, or the men sitting around fires desperate to regain warmth. 

They continued to walk around camp as George described the state of their food, which was direly low. He told Strong of the lack of fresh meat, the low supply of good bread, and the everlasting supply of water from the well just outside of Morristown. He described the lack of clothing, especially shoes, and how the town folk will not accept pay of continental dollars, for the pound contained more worth and was accepted through trade. 

“I feel that we might be low on shot as well.” Knox faced Strong, desperate to regain more artillery from Congress. 

“Shall I make a note of that to Congress as well?” He asked, pausing his notes from the spew of information he had been writing from George’s words. 

“Why, yes!” Knox seemed offended, and George shook his head slightly, worried about an upcoming conflict. “How are we expected to fight the British with no shot, come the summer campaign?” 

“Then I shall write it down.” Strong hesitated and looked at George before scribbling down ‘more shot needed’ against the parchment. 

“Henry, he is here for all of our sake, not just for your regiment.” Greene assured him, placing a hand on Knox’s shoulder. 

“May I see the headquarters you are stationed at, your Excellency?” He asked, not noting of the interaction of his fellow officers. George nodded and began to make his way out of the Green, down the street to the white Tavern. 

“It is Arnold’s Tavern, which I have been so gracious to have set up my personal quarters as well as a war study room, insisted upon me by Sir Jacob Arnlod.” George described while they made their was only a few houses over to the building, standing tall with two floors among the town. 

As the four of them descended up the steps and into the tavern, Strong paused at the foot of the main stairwell, glancing into the tavern at some of the soldiers drinking. 

“Do many of the soldiers come in here to drink?” He asked, writing down the amount of men in the tavern, cups of ale in their hands. 

“Once or twice a week. The drunkards are usually prosecuted if they show up more than that amount; the tender writes down who comes and goes.” George insisted, worried that might put a stain on their report for more supplies. 

“I see.” 

George guided him up the stairs to showcase the war room and the main state room filled with parchment, ink and quills, as well as more sitting rooms that contained tables and chairs. They all sat down in the sitting room at the beginning of the hall, Greene and Knox taking up one side of the table and George sitting alongside Strong as he opened the leather book to go over his notes. 

“So?” Greene inquired, leaning forward onto the table, anxiously awaiting an overall conclusion from the representative. 

“I cannot tell you what Congress will say. Perhaps they will do nothing.” Strong’s voice sounded impersonal. George leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to prevent himself from showing his disappointment. 

“What?” Knox asked, astounded. “Then what was the bloody point of this mission for you?” 

“I came per request of John Adams, who had received the idea from the general, here.” He explained; George recalled how the whole operation was all Alexander’s idea. “He just needed an in-person report of what this camp was like and what the army desperately needs. Adams himself had told me before I departed if the situation was not an immediate threat, then he might not act immediately unless the situation escalates to a worse spot.” 

_ Do you know that you are only here par an idea of a British foot soldier? _ George thought in his head, becoming more agitated with every word. 

Before Knox could retort, George held up his hand. 

“Men, let us take the afternoon to ourselves.” He saw Greene physically relax into his seat, and Knox almost protest before George interrupted them once more. “Tensions are high, and Mr. Strong would want to see the camp for himself without us hovering over his work. Leave him be.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Strong stood up. “Where are my personal quarters for the night?” 

“There is an extra bedroom downstairs. Just ask the tender for the key, say that I have sent you.” George shook Strong’s hand before the representative turned to leave, closing the sitting room door behind him. 

“ _ Where are my personal quarters for the night? _ ” Knox repeated, mockingly, when the steps subsided. Greene let out a hearty laugh, smacking his fist on the table. George offered a small smile, finding amusement in his officers. They did make quite the pair.

“You finally have some humor in the situation, ya Quaker?” Knox asked, elbowing his friend slightly. 

“I will admit, growing up in Quaker country has doused that fire long ago.” Greene smiled at Knox, both laughing. 

“Alright, alright men.” George silenced them, but the ghost of a smile was still imprinted on all three of their faces. “You two are dismissed to do as you please for the night.” 

George got up with the other men and headed to his own personal quarters, but stopped in front of Alexander’s door, the sentries side eyeing him. 

“Sir, I would not recommend going in. Hamilton is...hostile. It might endanger your safety.” The first sentry said, stopping George in his tracks. Perhaps it would be a better idea to leave the boy alone for a couple of days, perhaps weeks. 

He was a rogue musket, unreliable and trigger happy. 

“Thank you.” George walked away from the guards and into his own personal room, taking out a half empty journal and began to write of the hanging, the arrival of Selah Strong, and the tour of camp. He conveniently left out the thought of Strong being very similar to Alexander in more points than one.

-

He woke, tasting blood in his mouth as it seeped into his throat. Alexander coughed, letting his mouth open and pool the blood on to the dirt floor. He could not see anything, he noted, as his sandy eyes opened to a cloth draped over them. He had been bound and gagged before, but never blinded of his basic needs to see his surroundings. Alexander panicked and struggled in the bonds on his hands and feet before a click of a musket caused him to freeze. 

“I wouldn’t do that, boy.” An unfamiliar voice said, pressing the barrel of a pistol to his temple. It caused Alexander to flinch at the cool metal, staying still and holding his breath. 

“What is happening?” He asked, thankful not to be gagged. He had gotten no response. 

He could hear footsteps all around him; Alexander guessed about maybe three men in the small space. He must have been inside a tent, for he was bound to a pole and his knees were resting on dirt ground. He had half regretted leaving his navy overcoat that belonged to George back in the room he was held in, but would have regretted it more if it had gotten torn when he was captured, or gotten dirty from where he was held. Alexander felt the need of something, anything familiar to keep him calm; namely, something that belonged to George. 

_ The pocket watch.  _

He shifted his legs, only slightly, to feel the weight of the silver in his left thigh pocket. Instant relief washed over him. It did not seem broken, for he would have felt glass or a sharp edge of silver against his thigh if it was. He would have never forgiven himself if it had broken. 

A fourth set of footsteps walked into the space, and the new man snapped his fingers, the blind fold suddenly being pulled off of his face. 

Alexander blinked the fog from his eyes to see a man with a long nose in front of him, the officer's uniform draping his figure, features prominent in the muffled daylight. He looked vaguely familiar, but Alexander couldn't put his finger on whether he had seen the man before this moment. He was indeed within a tent, large enough to house the three guards, the officer, and Alexander himself. 

"Where am I?" He asked, weakly. 

"About three miles west from Morristown. Somewhere the soldiers, or more importantly  _ the general,  _ cannot hear you scream." The officer spat at him. 

"What is going on?" Alexander was beginning to regain confidence after the mention of George. He might have been using Alexander for his own war effort, but the general at least kept him safe, kept him unharmed and some freedom to an extent. 

He just wanted to be back in that tavern. 

"You seem to have some leeway against our general." The officer said, leaning his weight to the other foot. "You convinced him to follow your own plan of bringing in someone from Congress. You, a British redcoat." 

The sentries snickered. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Alexander responded and let his head drop, knowing the play wouldn't work. 

"Oh I think you do, Hamilton." The officer stepped closer and kneeled down to get level with him. "The commander of the continental army, taking orders from a British foot soldier. You are endangering this entire army." 

Alexander didn't respond. He kept looking down at the floor, wondering why he had been singled out against the multitude of threats the general was in every day. 

"No words from the traitor?" The officer asked. "Shame. I was really hoping for more of your intuition and suggestions to make our army better." 

The sarcasm was obvious in his voice. When the officer stood up and turned to exit, he whispered to a guard to keep Alexander from running. The officer left the sentries alone, closing the tent flap behind him. Two guards followed, assuming to keep watch, while a single guard stayed behind to watch over Alexander from the confines of the tent. The boy couldn't have been a day over fifteen. 

"How did you do it?" The guard asked, hesitantly. 

"What?" Alexander finally looked up, trying his best to understand. 

"How did you manage to sway the general? His own personal staff and arrangement of officers even have difficulties swaying him, but you?" The sentry lifted his hands up. "He listened to  _ you  _ at the very first suggestion you offered. Just, how did you manage to get him to do what you wanted? A redcoat, nonetheless." 

"It was a stupid suggestion." 

"And yet it happened. The man arrived in Morristown earlier today, and is taking the supply tally back to Congress. It was a brilliant idea, I must admit." 

"Then perhaps that is why Washington had listened." Alexander sighed and let his head fall again. 

"You are loyal to the British crown, no?" 

"I did swear an oath over a bible in front of my fellow soldiers, I will admit. I, however, am not as much of a godly man as your general is." Alexander paused. " _ Our,  _ general." 

The kid didn't respond. Perhaps he could help the kid show that he wasn't all the officer cracked him up to be. 

Never, in Alexander's life, thought he would be restrained because he was too much help for a cause. Something had changed deep within him, and being tied down like a dog to keep his own mind at bay, only clarified that change. Reading Common Sense had planted the seed, George Washington had provided the water, and his own brilliant mind had provided the sunlight. The plant of ideals was growing fast within his head. 

He wanted to turn, and to become a continental army man to fight against the Crown. 

Alexander felt himself flinch at the words. Thomas Paine had amazing points, and Alexander was starting to see that. 

These sentries and officers did not trust him yet. Alexander didn't even know if he could even trust  _ himself.  _

The only thing that mattered was if George could trust him. 

Alexander didn't even try to recall the events of last night as he began to plan an escape back to camp. 

-

As late January turned into early February, George had been too caught up in war plans and correspondence to leave the tavern for a week and a half. He hadn’t even left his study for the past few days, seemingly chained to his desk as he continued to write letters and take a new tally of their supplies. Congress had yet to respond to Selah Strong’s assessment. 

George wiped his sore eyes against his sleeve, sighing into the fabric as he finished the most important letter first. It was early, well before dawn when he had awoken, but now the sun had started to shine through his personal window, signaling him to take a break. 

There was a knock on the door, startling the general and causing him to drop his quill on the floor in a rush. 

“Who is it?” He groaned, reaching below the desk to where the feather had rolled off. 

“Doctor Church, sir.” The man said flatly, still outside of his chambers. 

“Enter.” George set the quill within his writing box, closing it gently as the door opened. The doctor strolled in, his white uniform sleeves splotched with blood. 

“Sir, I am afraid there has been a breakout of smallpox throughout the encampment.” 

George went rigid, remaining stoic in his facial expression as he was instantly transported back to Barbados in 1751. The feeling of sickness through his veins, the rashes covering his body, the fever that kept giving him nightmares throughout the night. The mere mention of the disease made George queasy and faint, the memories of a month in November spent in bed with a looming fear of death flooding into his mind. 

“Are you certain?” He asked, subconsciously reaching to his left side where a particular rash scar sat above the skin. George twitched his fingers before masking them still again, feeling a sudden itch in the area. 

“Yes, your Excellency. It is spreading quite rapidly.” Church replied curtly. 

George brought up his hand to his lip, absentmindedly picking at the skin. Smallpox had consistently been an issue with his army ever since the siege of Boston back in 1776, with his influx of newly enlisted men who had not seen the disease yet. It quickly spread throughout the ranks, but what caught George’s attention was his lack of regaining the symptoms of the disease when he had descended among the ranks. The other soldiers who had since recovered from the infectious rash had also never regained the symptoms again. 

Perhaps there could have been a solution.

“Can you isolate the disease?” He asked Church, settling his arm at his side once again. The doctor paused, contemplating the question. 

“I have only doctors that have been in close contact with the disease before working on the infected, myself included. The sick are in a tent just outside of town, but I am afraid the locals have caught it as well.” Church’s voice was grave. 

George nodded. “Continue your efforts. We may be able to introduce the illness to the unaffected soon enough, to gain immunity. It seems to be effective from personal experience.” George paced to the other side of his quarters. “Update me when you have the time to do so.” 

Church only nodded before heading outside of the room, promptly closing the door without being asked. 

George sat down at his desk. He had not been in contact with Alexander in a few weeks, he had guessed. Time had flown by him as he focused on anything but the British soldier cooped up in the room just down the hall from him. George had written correspondence deep into the night, focusing on ordering his troops, signing enlistment orders, and keeping a count of his supplies day in and day out, attempting to distract himself. With the outbreak of smallpox, he wondered if Alexander had ever come in contact with the disease. 

An image of the boy popped into George’s head. Alexander, sprawled across a bed in a nameless location, writhing in pain, itching the rashes littered across flushed skin. Groans of pain and annoyance could be heard inside of George’s head coming from the boy, and having to shake Alexander awake from the nightmares caused by a deadly fever. 

It made the general physically shiver at the image. 

If he had wanted Alexander to live, George was going to have to attempt to get a medical history of the soldier. A full one at that; something told the general the task would be tedious and difficult. 

_ I need him alive,  _ he thought to himself once again, the statement becoming his mantra as he began to stand up from his desk. 

Sentries still guarded his door with unrelenting perseverance, shift changes happening regularly to his personal guard. George stood outside of Alexander’s door, pausing to greet the guards before reaching for the handle. 

“I wouldn’t go in there, sir.” The shorter of the two men informed him. George furrowed his brow in confusion. 

“You have said the same thing throughout the entire fortnight I have not bothered to step inside that room.” He said, switching the weight from one foot to the other. His impatience was starting to get to George as he glared at the men in front of him, unmoving to let the general inside. 

They continued to stand silent. 

“You are aware that this is a breach in conduct?” He asked, slowly so the sentries could understand. “I will have you court martial if you do not comply with my orders to  _ move _ .” 

The guards widened their eyes as they hastily moved from their post. George glared at the two men, seeing their nervous expressions, as he reached for a spare key within his right pocket. George did not think twice when he slid the piece of metal into the lock and twisted the door open. 

At first, George had not noticed anything wrong. His heartbeat was moving too quickly within his ears to truly focus on the silence within the room. 

The empty room, where Alexander no longer was. 

George felt bile rise in his throat. The first thing he had noticed was the bed unmade and messy, the thin white sheets thrown off to one side and wrinkled with feigning care. George’s overcoat, navy with gold trim and all, was also laid across the bed, similar wrinkles gracing the fabric. He turned his head to the other side of the room where the stool was hastily knocked over, in a suspicious position that looked similar to that night almost a week and a half ago when George had dragged Alexander out from this very room, and in the struggle, the stool clattered to the wooden floor. 

His journals were sprawled across the floor as well. Alexander was nowhere to be seen. 

George couldn’t move. His eyes continued to rake across the small space, looking for any sign that the room had changed since the night in the town, but all was within the same position. 

Alexander must have not come back that night.

George felt his heart clench. 

He has escaped his grasp. 

George felt himself surge forward, his foot colliding with the stool with strength. The wooden chair was thrown across the room, hitting the wooden wall with the same vigor as a pistol shot. 

“Sir!” The sentries rushed in, a look of surprise sown across their faces. It had looked genuine enough to not worry the General. 

“Get me Reed.” George gritted out, fury coursing through his veins. 

He was too proud to admit that he felt betrayal in his heart. 

-

A spoon was held in front of Alexander. The sentry was shaking from what he assumed to be from fear, the young man not older than fifteen anxious from the British soldier kneeling in front of him. Alexander scowled. 

“I am not dangerous.” He said, intently looking down at the wavering spoon full of soup in mid air. “I will not bite your finger off.” 

A beat passed before the sentry - Alexander had found out his name was Oliver Taylor just last week - slowly let the spoon fall back into the bowl being held below Alexander’s chin. 

“I know.” Taylor sighed in resignation. “I am not quite used to this post, it seems.” 

Alexander let his head fall to his chest. The two weeks within the small test had been no different than the days he had spent in Trenton. He had been granted walks, twice a week, through the small neck of the woods next to the clearing he was stationed in. Alexander was also granted more food and longer breaks to relieve himself within the woods. 

All these privileges have been granted to Alexander on behalf of Taylor, the young boy arguing with the higher ranking sentries to allow him more freedom. The higher rankings reluctantly gave in. 

Alexander had found out about Taylor’s home life in the meantime of his imprisonment. Oliver Taylor was born in Virginia, but moved to the calm towns within the state of Maryland with his mother after his father had died in a plantation accident. With the way that Taylor had described his father, Alexander had not pressed for more information on the nature of the man’s death. Taylor went on to describe the way he managed to make his way into the enlistment pathway to the Revolution, claiming the patrolls of the redcoats through the small town where he had resided inspired him to resist against them. Taylor anxiously waited for Alexander’s story after he had finished describing his own that night. 

Alexander didn’t give in. 

The two weeks spent in the tent, kneeling and only slightly bound, consistently watched and monitored, could have gone worse on his behalf. He could have been beaten every day, denied food, even the basic need of fulfillment of stimulation through conversation could have been taken from him. Instead, Taylor has helped him through the process of adjusting. 

“I cannot eat with you just sitting there, Taylor.” Alexander sighed, lifting his head up from his chest. 

“I am just nervous. I have no idea what John intends to do with you,” a pause. “Or Reed, for that matter.”

“They must plan to execute me.” Alexander had thought of death too many times the past few weeks spent kneeling down, tied to a tent pole. “Unless Reed plans to use me against George.”

“George?” Taylor asks. He places the bowl off to the side, and Alexander had realized his mistake. 

“Washington.” He corrected. 

“I was not aware you two were close.” 

“He requested me that I call him by that name.” Alexander explained, shifting himself so he could feel the pocket watch in his trousers. “It is a very long story of my confinement that I am afraid I wish not to share.” 

“I see.” Taylor attempted to pick up the bowl and spoon once more, lifting it to Alexander's lips. He took the spoon into his mouth, relishing the soup hitting his tongue. It was cold. 

Alexander had not thought about how much he had missed George since that night he had been taken. He had become oddly at peace with being removed, since talking with Taylor and sorting out his thoughts of rebellion towards the Crown of England. Alexander had time to finally realize his position on siding with George and his army. 

For his escape, he needed allies and time, both of which he was notoriously bad at obtaining. Alexander could describe himself as a pistol, needing to be fired as soon as possible. It was not within his personality to wait. 

George would have to wait for the moment. 

Alexander hadn’t brought up the thoughts of escape to Taylor yet. He was afraid the boy would report him to the higher ranks, strip away his privileges, and enforce the strict rules of Trenton back onto him. Alexander could learn to be patient with the boy. 

He had finished his soup, the last spoonful being slowly fed into his mouth. The sun was setting in the distance, and Taylor had lit a candle before Alexander was served his dinner. The single lit wax caused shadows to flicker off of the boy’s face.

“Do you miss your mother?” Alexander finds himself asking after a pause. 

“Sometimes.” Taylor seems sincere. “She did not want me to enlist. Does not answer my letters.” 

Alexander hums. 

Silence follows the pair as he leans back into the pole he was tied to; the pocket watch shifted within Alexander’s trousers once more, reminding him of his goal. He hardly knew the time while confined to the small space. The only time he could look at the watch without the guards seeing directly is when he decides to pull his prick out from the confines of his breeches, quickly skimming the metal with his hands before relieving himself on a nearby tree. It was remarkable how the guards had not noticed the watch yet. 

“Taylor.” He says, slowly and apprehensively, such as to a small child. “I have a secret to show you, but you must promise not to say another word to a soul.” 

Taylor nods eagerly. 

“I must ask something of you first.” 

“Why?” Taylor responds, confusion written across his face. He was cross legged across from Alexander. 

“Have you ever met the General?” Alexander decided to ask without hesitation. 

“No.” Taylor looked disappointed. “I have only seen him from a distance. What is the meaning of this inquiry?”

Alexander shifts his leg so the pocket with the watch juts out more prominently in the candle light, clearly exposing the round metal figure through his breeches. 

“Reach in my pocket and take that watch out.” 

Taylor hesitates, and looks as if he was going to ask why, but compiles anyway, slowly leaning forward to reach into Alexander’s pocket and pulling out the watch. The boy fiddles with the silver in his hands, frowning at the time piece. 

“Open it.” Alexander urges, shifting his leg back under him into a more comfortable position. Taylor does, and lets out a slight gasp at the engraving. 

“This is Washington’s watch?” He asks in bewilderment, still staring at the name scrawled in neat cursive within the inside of the watch. He ran his fingers along the engraving and the clock face, his mouth slightly agape. 

“Yes.” Alexander slightly smiled at the memory forming within his head of the belated day of birth gift. “He says it was a gift, to me, but I refused, so he insisted it was a loan.” 

“Hamilton, this is exquisite.” Taylor says. 

“I know.” Alexander sighs. “I am constantly afraid I will break it within my trousers.”

Taylor closed the lock face, and held it out to Alexander before realizing that his hands were bound behind his back, unable to return it back into his pocket. A small laugh was exchanged between the two men before the younger of the two leaned forward to return it to the original pocket. 

“I will be gentle when transporting you to your walks and other endeavors.” Taylor sits back in his place, closing his eyes. 

“I appreciate the gesture.” 

Alexander glanced at the tent opening. The guards just outside of the flap were conversing with each other, making gestures with their hands that cast shadows against the cloth of the tent. As the sun set further, the shadows grew larger, and inevitably disappeared. 

He had gotten a good idea of what the system of sentries while imprisoned. He used the time he had to think to carefully watch over the shift changes and breaks when the guards stepped away from their posts. They changed shifts every sundown, just before bed, and the shift lasted a full day before another group came. Three separate groups of men rotated positions throughout the weeks.

The only consistency that Alexander had seen was Taylor, seemingly always on duty to keep him company. 

“I consider you a friend.” The boy said, after Alexander reviewed the sentry post changes within his mind. “I can see why Washington intends to keep you in our grasp.” 

“You realize I am a member of the crown?” He asked, mockingly, before the boy nodded in sincerity. 

“Something tells me that will change soon, Hamilton.” 

Alexander didn’t reply to the accusation. After all, he had already gotten this far, and the change was inevitable. 

-

George was pacing. 

The compact council room couldn’t have been any smaller to him as he walked back and forth behind the chairs set on the table. Currently, the wood was polished and clear, only a candle or so reflecting on the surface and dripping wax in between the cracks. His mind was reeling with thoughts of his own failure to keep Alexander close to him. George hadn’t thought much about the consequences of leaving the boy in the hands of the sentries while Reed stole him aside those weeks ago to a caught spy. 

_ Speak of the devil _ , thought George as his fellow officer strolled into the room. Before the General knew it, Reed was in his grasp against the wooden wall. 

“Where the  _ hell  _ is he?” George couldn’t recognize his own voice in such a snarl. Reed coughed within the grip, gasping for air, obviously winded from the brute force that the general had used to pin him against the wall. 

“Sir!” John Laurens, the new aide, rushed forward for a brief moment, but stopped as he held his hand outstretched. 

“What are you talking about?” Reed’s face twisted in confusion and obvious pain, his arms flailing against George’s arms in an unfruitful attempt to escape. 

“Hamilton is  _ not  _ in his confinement. As from what I could see, he has not been inside the tavern for almost  _ two weeks _ !” George pressed the officer against the wall harder, ignoring the rushing footsteps into the room. “You left him with the guards!” 

“Sir, we safely transported him to the tavern last night, he must have escaped-” 

“Bullshit!” George pulled one of his arms from Reed’s body in an attempt to punch the man, but was soon peeled from the officer by Greene at his side. 

“Your Excellency,  _ please _ , stand down.” Greene’s voice was calm and controlled, something that George could not manage to hold himself. 

“I transported him  _ safely _ and  _ intact  _ to the door of his confinement room,” Reed grit his teeth as he smoothed out his now crinkled uniform along the collar. “The sentries informed me of his arrival. I assure you, I had nothing to do with his escape.”

George sighed and looked to Greene, the officer’s face indifferent to the situation and his arms still grasping the General’s arm in case of another attack. 

“Get  _ every  _ sentry on this.” George turned and ordered to Laurens. “I want to double the patrol, search parties trailing the border, every possible measure to ensure he is safely within our grasp.  _ Alive _ .” 

“Absolutely not!” Reed interjected. 

“Excuse me?” 

“We cannot waste our resources on a measly prisoner, sir.” Reed straightened himself out and stood next to Laurens. “Do not take those orders.” 

“If I may correct you, Officer Reed,” George hissed in anger, moving to tower over the other man. “I am the General of this army, and Laurens takes the orders of his employer, the General of the Continental Army;  _ me _ .”

Laurens anxiously looked between Reed and George. 

“Carry out the orders, son.” With a wave of his hand, the General dismissed the aide, who rushed out of the room before the tension could be raised. 

“His Excellency is correct, Reed.” Greene spoke. “Hamilton could be carrying vital information about the nature of our troops, and the dire situation we are involved with. It could be dangerous if he found himself within the British ranks once again.” 

“That boy would not have such information if Washington had kept his mouth shut and had not let him participate in discussions of the state of this army!” Reed was now yelling at the two senior officers, defending himself. George thought this was the most unusual of defenses; did Reed not understand not only the political importance, but the military necessity of getting Alexander back?

George bit his tongue preventing himself from thinking of the very personal reason he needed Alexander back; he needed to feel those lips against his own once more. 

“Are you so stubborn not to realize the implications of his escape? Instead, you focus on the general’s attempt to save our own troops? Do you not know that Hamilton was the lad who gave Washington the idea to send Mr. Strong out here to survey our supplies?” Greene leaped at the opportunity to defend George. He had to keep in mind of the officer’s loyalty. 

Another set of steps came into the room at a rush. George turned towards the doorway to see one of Reed’s personal aides holding out parchment. 

“This conversation is not over,  _ Your Excellency _ .” As Reed said the title, his voice was laced with malice and harm. George paid no mind to it as the officer slithered out of the room. 

_ There are snakes in the garden _ , he thought. 

“Sir?” Greene asked, finally releasing his grip from the general’s arm. “I know you must be close with the boy if you go to such lengths to get him back.” 

“Do you truly think he escaped, Greene?” George asked, sighing and looking down at his hands, red with flushed skin from his tight grip against Reed. 

“I am not sure.” 

“This must be of Reed’s doing.” George looked down at the shorter man. “Hamilton had no true reason to escape.” 

“Sir, you must realize something. You have first kept him confined to a tent, bound, until given the opportunity to escape, and then kept him unconscious when we relocated to Morristown. He has seen next to nothing but the four walls of that room, where he ate and slept. You have had discussions with him, and used his brilliant mind for information to further advance our cause. From what I have been told, you reward him for his use of information. Does that not seem suffocating to you? Being used for ideas and rewarded for those efforts? Though comfortable, the circumstances of his imprisonment is still against his will.” 

George did not reply. 

“Oh, bloody heavens.” Greene gasped. “You...took fond of him?” 

George’s eyes went wide at his mistake of silence Had it really been so obvious?

“Nathanael.” He started, but was unable to find the words to defend himself. 

“How far has it gone?” 

“A single kiss. The night he disappeared.” George moved to sit within one of the chairs surrounding the table. “It had not gone as expected. I was attempting to speak with him without the supervision of the guards. He accused me of using him, and I insisted otherwise. It was quite the argument.” 

“An argument ending in a kiss?” Greene sat across from George on the table, getting closer to the candlelight. “I am not sure that is how these things go.” 

“It is between two men. It is already not how these things are supposed to go.” George laughed slightly. 

“The General of this nation’s army, fancying himself with a foot soldier of the enemy.” Greene returned the laughter. “It is quite the tale.” 

George grew silent as he thought the situation one more time through. Alexander was missing, Reed was on the defensive, and the sentries had guarded an empty room for over two weeks without notifying the general. 

George should have checked on the boy earlier. His conflicting feelings had clouded his judgment, something that had never happened before. 

"We will find him." Greene interrupted his thoughts. "If you require my assistance, your Excellency, you shall have it." 

"You will keep this information to yourself?" George asked in a panic. 

"I am from a Quaker family." Greene simply stated. "We are taught to accept all forms of life, condemn slavery, and to love, above all else. I assure you, this does not change my highly respected opinion of you, George." 

The general smiled at his fellow officer. He was safe. 

He could only imagine how safe Alexander could be. 

-

"What side are you truly allied with?" He asked Taylor the next day after showing him the pocket watch. 

"What?" Taylor had a lump of cold chicken in his hands, half of which was currently within his mouth, slightly dripping down his chin. It made Alexander cringe. 

"Who are you working for? To keep me here." 

Taylor hesitated. The chill morning air was not stopped by the flimsy tent, wisps of a breeze slipping between the flaps; it had blown out the candle not half an hour previous. Taylor has made a brief glance to the tent's opening, emphasizing the shadow of two more sentries standing there. 

Alexander cursed under his breath. 

“Maybe we can walk around the field.” Taylor set down his platter of food, careful not to drop the contents onto the dirt. “Give you some time to relieve yourself a little earlier in the morning.” 

Alexander glanced at Taylor’s face. A ghost of a smirk looked him back. 

He moved to his knees while Taylor stood, preparing to shift his weight on his feet once the bonds were removed. 

“It is quite chill outside, Hamilton.” Taylor undid the bonds, lifting Alexander up by the underside of his arms. He felt dizzy from being bound for so long throughout the night. “Let me get your petticoat.” 

The coat was tied around Alexander’s throat, reminding him of the two times that George had done the same to him. The thought was quickly put down within his own mind; Alexander could not focus on what he is currently missing. 

With his hands still bound behind him by a long handkerchief, Taylor took him by the arm under the petticoat and led Alexander outside of the tent. The sun glared in his eyes as he looked upon the white field, a fresh coat of snow glistening across the small space. The field must have been about forty yards in diameter by Alexander’s judgment, the circular shape being bordered by trees, also covered in the snow from overnight. It must have been a couple inches at most. 

The cold rushed onto Alexander’s face as he stood outside of the tent, two sentries standing on the opposing side of the field, talking amongst themselves. Taylor took a moment to pause, letting the prisoner take in the fresh view of early morning. The sun was just barely above the trees, and he wished he was unbound to check the time on the pocket watch within his breeches. 

“Let us be off then.” Alexander smiled to Taylor, who returned the gesture as they began to walk towards the rising sun into the path cleared between the trees. The path was narrow, only a few feet in width, snow covered trees lining the track.

Once they were far away enough from the pair of sentries on the border, Alexander asked who Taylor was working for, once again. The boy hesitated before answering, checking the surroundings, and then turning towards Alexander directly. 

“Joseph Reed.” 

Alexander made a face of confusion, before suddenly remembering the officer that had talked with him when he had first woken up in the tent the night he was taken away from George. Even further back, it was the same man who had punched him in the jaw to incapacitate him during his transfer. 

“What does he want with me?” Alexander asked. 

“He believes you are too close to the general. That you are no good for this army. He is paying the sentries to ally with him, from what I could gather.” Taylor paused, looking over his shoulder once more. “Secret meetings, down payments of British money, the whole lot.” 

Alexander looked down at his shoes. Standard issue boots, ones that George had managed to scrounge up from the limited supplies. 

“He thinks I am trying to bring the whole army down. That they are wasting resources on a mere  _ spy _ .” He spit out, still looking down on the ground. The feeling of disrespect coursed through his veins. 

“Hamilton.” Taylor urged the prisoner to look up. “You are not a spy. I have seen this through our discussions, and from what you have done with the representative from Congress arriving to camp. You have changed, and are nothing that Reed says of you.” 

“Then why do you still work for him?” Alexander snapped, raising his voice. 

“Quiet, Hamilton!” Taylor rasped out, eyes going wide and looking around. He returned to Alexander’s side, grabbing his arm hard and began to walk briskly down the path once more. 

They walked in silence as the pair made their way deeper into the forest. 

“In truth,” Taylor started after minutes of silence, only being interrupted with the occasional animal movement, “I am only in it for the money. A simple sentry guard post here within the army is not very fruitful. My poor mother, she can barely support herself, and I send her all the extra pay I make.” 

Alexander stayed quiet as they walked. 

“Here is a good spot to take care of yourself, no?” 

He could only nod to Taylor as the sentry turned around, giving Alexander the privacy he needed. 

What he truly needed, was his freedom from this place, from Reed, and from the guards constantly watching him. Ever since Trenton, it is all Alexander ever knew. He had no heart to reveal to himself just how much he wanted to be back within the wooden cell inside the tavern, listening to George read to him, enveloped within the general’s coat as he drifted to sleep. 

As Alexander pissed into the bush in front of him, he dared to think more thoughts of the General, slowly letting himself relax the tension from his shoulders. 

When he was finished, Alexander turned to Taylor once again, waiting for the boy to take him back to camp. They began walking, slowly as they could, to let Alexander spend as long as he could to stretch his sore legs. 

Alexander decided to speak.

"Do you ever think of leaving?" He asked Taylor, looking at the young man at his side.

"What?"

"I know you heard me, Taylor."

A silence briefly followed, causing Alexander to momentarily regret asking his question.

"Reed is not the best person to obey orders from. He is very demanding and hard to impress." Taylor looked to the path in front of them. "Not to mention, the pay is not the best. Reed hardly has the proper count of notes for us."

Alexander looked at his friend.

"Help me escape."

Taylor suddenly came to an abrupt halt, looking at Alexander with wide eyes.

"I will face punishment under Court Martial. Reed will spin the story to them to make it seem I am betraying the army."

"I am close with Washington." Alexander insisted. "I will assure your safety, you have my word."

Taylor hesitated.

"What is your plan?"

-

Two weeks. 

It was nearing the end of February, and Alexander had still not yet been found. 

George had waited within his quarters inside the tavern for a new report from the search parties venturing out into the cold forest. It had been almost two weeks, and every day seems to have passed by in a haze to George. 

He had developed a routine for himself. Wake up at the crack of dawn, immediately dragging his sore body off the cot and to his makeshift desk. Write personal correspondence, sending the rest to be done by his aides. Walk around the encampment, shivering in the snow, keeping a tally of what the soldiers needed, desperately awaiting word from congress giving him supplies for his men. Return to the tavern, writing in his personal journal to record the events of the day. Eat dinner. Debrief his officers in a biweekly meeting. Continue to write deep into the night, almost burning through the wax to the end of the wick. Sleep for a couple hours. Repeat the next day. 

George was currently awaiting the report, keeping the officers at bay by having Laurens tell them to wait to be called upon for the debriefing later that evening. 

With each passing day, he found himself thinking of the possibility of Alexander being found dead somewhere in a ditch along the river bank near the camp, or hanging in a tree, claw marks along his throat from attempting to escape a lynching. The thought kept George on edge constantly, weaving its way into his thoughts on a regular basis. It was starting to severely affect his work in keeping the army’s survival through the winter. 

George had even resorted to writing down his fear of Alexander’s death within his private journals. He had never done such a thing before. The purpose of the journals was to keep a record of daily activities, but as the days passed, he had found comfort in voicing his concerns in some sort of diary. 

He was currently doing so, describing his fear with great detail, when there was a soft knock at his door. 

"Enter."

The face of one of the new cadets saluted him, looking nervous in front of the General for the first time in his young life.

"Do you have a new report for me?" George asked, hand holding the pen slightly shaking, anticipating good news. 

"We have nothing new, Sir." The cadet looked down at the ground, afraid to bring the bad news to the highest ranking member of the army. “The search parties ventured further out into the forest than the past few days, and we yet have something significant to report.”

“If Hamilton had escaped, he would have been long gone by now.” George pondered out loud, mostly for his own benefit. It would be almost a month since the boy had disappeared. 

“We are aware of that fact, sir.” 

George sighed and waved his hand to dismiss the young cadet from his quarters. The boy exited the chambers in haste, shutting the wooden door behind him. 

He couldn’t keep the officers waiting any longer within the sitting room. It was time to discuss the army's situation with the other high ranking men.

George put away his quill within the confines of his desk, shutting the leather bound journal. He stood, stretching his sore legs since early that morning. George sighed, looking at the heavy navy overcoat that he had given to Alexander to keep him warm within the cold tavern. It had been discarded within the makeshift cell of confinement.

It hurt George to see the fabric laying on the ground, wrinkled and forgotten. He shook it off, facing the door and working himself up to face his fellow commanders.

Quickly grabbing his quill box next to his crate of personal items, George opened the chamber door to a now empty hallway.

As he walked out, he pressed his palm to his forehead, suppressing the urge to groan as he walked the tavern hall to the other side of the cooradoor. He had never felt such resentment towards a meeting before; George usually liked to hear the opinions of others, taking in information and discussing ways to none forward within the war. It was why he had called so many war councils, including the two he had summoned before he had vacated Trenton. 

His thoughts drifted as he then found himself standing in front of the door leading into the sitting room, presumably the officers already occupying it by the sound of hushed conversations that George could hear from his position in the hallway.

He did not hesitate to open the door.

Inside the small room, Greene was the only officer standing, with the rest sitting in silence. Reed was reading a piece of parchment, but quickly hid it from sight as soon as George had walked in. Henry Knox could be seen nursing a single wooden pint of ale, hugging the cup close to his chest, barely listening to Benjamin Lincoln and his quiet whispers of conversation to the artillery officer next to him. George had to take a second look to notice the new face sitting near the far end of the table.

"Doctor Rush?" George asked, widening his eyes at the man. The other officers continued their small conversations, paying no mind to the General’s surprise at his previous friend, who had asked to be left behind in Princeton.

"Sir." Rush smiled at the General. George walked to his friend, extending out a hand for a firm grip of a handshake.

"We will discuss this later, my friend." Rush insisted, letting George go to sit at the head of the table.

He set down his quill box, and began to speak, the other officers letting their conversations die to listen to the General. 

"As you may already know, I have called upon you all to discuss the progress from the past week.” George stood and looked at the fellow officers in front of him, going through the weekly report of food rations, clothing, and issues that the troops had brought to his attention. 

Reed never took his eyes off of George during the quick meeting. The intensity of those eyes on him never faulted, but it neither bothered George, the general being used to the judgmental eyes throughout many people over the past decade or so. 

“Now,” George stopped taking, giving the other officers a chance to speak. “Does anyone else have a report?” 

None of the officers held up their hands, signifying the end of the meeting.

Before George could dismiss the men sitting around the table, the sudden ring of church bells cut him off, echoing distantly from the tavern. George felt his face twist in confusion at the sound; it was not Sunday, and the sentries guarding the entrance of the town are under strict orders not to ring the bells unless something was coming. 

George looked to the officers, who returned their looks at the general, most of which were painted with fear. 

_ This could very well have been a British invasion of their safe haven.  _

George reacted before he could think. He ran; out of the room and down the stairs, almost tripping over his own feet. Sounds of footsteps followed him through the halls of the tavern, boot falls slapping against the polished wooden floors. When George had reached the tavern door, he swung it open with such force it could have easily flew out of the frame. The cold air hit his face in a rush, but George did not care of the shiver now making its way down his spine; he could only focus on the sounds of the bells, possibly warning them of their imminent death. 

He continued to run, fast down the center of the street with his fellow officers not too far behind him, until he reached the green. He was pleased to find most of his soldiers up on their feet with muskets already raised to fire if needed. Greene and Knox could already be seen running past him and into the green to meet with their own fellow soldiers, barking out orders to their troops. 

He should have grabbed Nelson from the stables before charging into a possible battle. 

George suddenly came to an abrupt halt, looking at the entrance to the town and seeing four wagons pulled by horses at a leisurely pace. 

“Call your men off!” George roared, holding his hand up to halt the movements of his troops. 

Greene instantly rushed to his General’s side, his eyes widening at the familiar face on the horse in front of the brigade of wagons. 

Selah Strong, smiling with pride. 

-

As George looked over the parchment with all the extra supplies written in ink, the sun was setting just below the horizon. 

When Strong had appeared a the town entrance with the wagons full of supplies, George could have cried right in that moment. There was finally hope for his army, and that was enough to bring George to literal tears as he watched the wagons slowly inch past him and Greene to where the storage barn was kept. 

Now, Strong sat in front of him in the planning room of the tavern, explaining the trek from Philadelphia. 

“This will last us until the summer campaign.” George noted over the numbers of clothes, food, blankets, and shot. 

“Congress had listened to me throughly. It took less than a moment for them to agree after my grievances of this camp.” Strong lifted his hand up and brushed through his hair, reminding George of Alexander once more. 

“I am very thankful, Mr. Strong.” 

George set the paper aside, turning to the man. 

“Do you plan to stay here within the camp? We will make accommodations for you here within the tavern and share our new supply with you as long as you like.” The General asked. He wanted to show his gratitude towards the representative, not sure if congress had already compensated the man for his efforts. 

“I am afraid not, sir. I am anxious to return to my wife, Anna, in Rhode Island.” 

“I shall see to your departure.” George nodded, standing from his seat at the table. He shook Selah Strong’s hand, the firm grip of the other man grounding him. They nodded to each other, before he walked out of the room. 

George sighed at the now closed door. The supplies would greatly help their cause, and boost troop morale, but now that the excitement of renewed hope was wearing off of George in waves, slowly reminding him of how south the war was going, and his missing prisoner. 

It hurt to call Alexander his prisoner; George had started to call him the title on his own, taking Greene’s words to heart on the situation. Alexander was his prisoner, no matter how much he cared for the long haired boy. 

As soon as Alexander was back within his grasp, George would make sure that he was given the freedom he deserved. 

A knock on the wooden door to the planning room interrupted his thoughts, startling him. He allowed the person to enter, and when the door swung open, the face of Benjamin Rush graced George’s presence. 

“Doctor Rush.” George smiled, walking to the man and extending his hand to him once more. They shook, smiling. 

“Please, have a seat.” George waved his hand towards the table, where Rush made his way to sit down across from the General. 

“How was Princeton?” He asked, letting himself relax in the chair across from the Doctor. His posture slouched from the stress of the day, and his head began to acquire a light headache. 

“It was alright. I apologize for the contents of my last letter.” Rush explained frankly. 

_ Mercer _ . 

George didn’t reply. 

“Would you rather have found out from someone else? Or through seeing his name on a casualty list?” Rush asked, slightly frowning in the lack of response. 

“I suppose not.” 

“I again, apologize. I wish he hadn’t passed, either, sir.” Rush sat forward slightly, concerned eyes connecting with George’s. 

They sat in silence for a moment, neither of them bothering to speak. It was quite comforting to George; the silence wasn’t awkward or intense. It was just what it was; silence. 

“We will have your quarters set up within the camp. There seems to be an outbreak of smallpox within the green, and Doctor Church requested your help with spreading the immunity among the men.” He did not explicitly say so, but Rush seemed to understand the implication of the sentence. George just wanted to be alone in his quarters for the rest of the night.

“I will speak with you later, your Excellency.” Rush nodded and made his way out of the room. 

-

“Tell me the plan again.”

Taylor was currently dragging a wet rag against Alexander’s naked back, his trousers, the watch within his left pocket, still hanging loose on his legs as he hunched over to let the young man wash his body slowly. Taylor had whispered the sentence in Alexander’s ear, trying to be as quiet as possible so the guards outside the tent could not hear them. 

“Did you forget?” Alexander asked, keeping his face stoic.

“I am anxious. I have never done this before.” Taylor paused. “And I would like to think it through once more, to see if you have any mistakes.”

“We wait for the shift change near sundown.” Alexander whispered. “You will escort me to relieve myself and to go for a walk on the usual path, nothing out of the ordinary. Reed had mentioned that we are about three miles from the encampment. We will calmly walk to the forest, and then we switch the pace to a fast walk and deviate from the original” 

As Alexander explained, Taylor then moved from his back to his chest, still leaning his head forward to listen to the prisoner’s plan. 

“By the time we have been missing for more than twenty minutes, the sentries aligned with Reed will notice we have not returned. They will then hunt us down. We need to work fast. George most likely has search parties out looking for me, and due to that fact, when the patrols find us near the camp, they will bind us and take us directly to the General, where he will release and protect us; specifically you, where he will shield you from Reed and Court Martial for allowing me to escape.” 

Taylor nodded and continued to remain silent, slowly washing Alexander and keeping his eyes focused on his hands. 

“Would you like me to wipe down the watch for you?” He asked, finally looking up into Alexander’s eyes. He made a noise of agreement as he looked at the hair lining at his field of vision. 

As Taylor wiped the watch with the wet rag, Alexander could feel a buzz within his body. By tonight, he would see George again. By tonight, he would be free, join the cause, and make his way through this war to see it to the end. 

The young man helped Alexander redress, and then sat off to the side, pulling out a quill, ink, and parchment on the small wooden lap table he sometimes used. 

“Writing to your mother?” Alexander asked. 

“She will not respond, I know she will not.” Taylor mused, dipping the quill into the ink and beginning to scrawl. “It is foolish that I hope she will do so otherwise.” 

Alexander pursed his lips. 

“It is not foolish. Hope will never be foolish, not with this war and these odds.” Alexander dove into his mind, desperate to make Taylor see the truth. “Hope is all this army has, and all we all need. Just a little while longer, Taylor, your mother will understand in due time when we win.” 

Taylor had long since stopped scribbling. 

“We?”

“Yes, we.” Alexander did not even think twice before saying the word. 

“My God,” Taylor looked up from the parchment on the lap desk. “You have changed, dear Hamilton.” 

Alexander smiled. 

Taylor worked until the sundown shift change, Alexander running through the plan within his head over and over until he finally knew every inch of his plan, through and through. 

When the time had finally come, Taylor had lifted Alexander from the pole of the tent and bound his hands behind his back loosely, looking at his face. The prisoner could tell that the young man was fearful. 

“Hey,” Alexander cooed, trying to south the man not much younger than himself. “It will all be alright. We are just taking a light stroll.” 

Taylor nodded, letting Alexander walk outside of the tent into the slush that was the melting snow of the evening. 

The sun had just set, painting brilliant colors of red and orange across the sky above the field. The clouds, little in number, reflected the streaks of the sun down onto the Earth, lighting the forest all around Alexander as the sight took his breath away. On the opposite side of the sky where the sun was not, dark purple coated the area, slowly transitioning into black as the sun crept away from it. 

“It truly is beautiful.” Taylor remarked from behind Alexander. He could only nod in reply. 

They started walking, side by side and away from the guards, over to the beaten path where they both agreed was closest to the Morristown encampment. 

“I cannot believe we are doing this.” Taylor remarked. “We just...walked away from the sentries.”

“If we act suspicious in front of them, they would never have let us this far.” Alexander looked down at his flimsy boots crunching down on the ground. He had not bothered to ask Taylor for the petticoat hanging by the tent flaps; Alexander could handle the cold until they had reached the main encampment, where he would finally be wrapped in the navy blue general’s coat once more. 

“May I be unbound?” Alexander asked, almost quietly, afraid to be rejected. 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Taylor was clearly distracted, but he snapped out of his own head to reach behind Alexander and undo the rope holding his wrists together. 

Once Alexander was free of his bonds, they continued to walk in silence as it got darker and darker around them. The sentries would begin to suspect something was up by the time that they decided to go on a path less traveled through the woods. 

“We can pick up the pace now.” Alexander said, Taylor following right behind him. 

“You’ll help our cause, Alexander.” 

“This isn’t a goodbye, Oliver.” He used the boy’s first name for the first time in quite a while, but it seemed to get his attention when Alexander laughed. “This is only the beginning.” 

-

They walked; for hours, it seemed. 

Realistically, Alexander knew it could have been a maximum of only a single hour, but the suspense of letting themselves get caught had been slowly eating at him ever since they first came up with the plan together. 

Tayor had remained silent ever since he had untied Alexander. The thought of him turning against Alexander had him worried, however, George was Taylor’s only hope to stay sheltered from Reed. 

His thoughts were cut off when he saw a small clearing up ahead, guards armed with muskets patrolling the area around them. Their footfalls against the melting snow and branches must have alerted the guards.

By the time Alexander’s arm was stretched out to stop Taylor in his tracks so that they may hide from the sentries, it was too late, and soon the guards came running over to them in the dark. 

“Halt!” One of them said. A deep voice, most likely an older man. 

Alexander instantly stopped, feeling his heart skip a beat within his chest. Taylor, under the full moon light, turned to him, his face painted in fear under the shadows of the leaves above them. 

“Expose yourselves.” The same sentry stated once again, encouraging Alexander and Taylor to step out from the barrier of the trees from the field. Taylor gave a questioning look to Alexander, before the older man nodded, assuring that it was alright to walk through to the other sentries. 

They walked forward slowly, letting their hands raise above their heads so that they could emphasize the fact that the pair was unarmed. 

They exposed themselves in the light of the moon, getting a glimpse of the two guards doing a nightly patrol. The first one, who Alexander assumed had spoken the first time, was indeed older and absurdly tall compared to himself. The second guard, along the same lines, though looking significantly younger than his counterpart. 

“State your business.” The younger one asked. 

“Oliver Taylor.” The younger one said, extending out his arm for a handshake, but stayed outstretched, due to the guards looking at Taylor with stoic expressions. “I am a sentry placed under Joseph Reed.” 

That seemed to grab their attention quickly enough, 

“And who is this with you”

“I am Alexander Hamilton. I assume you are looking for me?” 

Both guards widened their eyes, seemingly stunned from the proclamation. 

“Then you, Alexander Hamilton, are coming with us.” 

-

_ He was in a barn.  _

_ It seemed familiar enough to him. Could he have worked here? Slept in here?  _

_ Is he dead?  _

_ His thoughts seemed to be sluggish to him. They were still his thoughts, his ideas, his feelings, but for some unknown reason, they came to him at such a slow pace it could not be natural.  _

_ The barn was empty. Unusually empty. From what he could remember in his childhood, most of the barns he had been to were full of hay, or crates. This one however, was completely empty and void of anything inside of it.  _

_ He looked down at his hands, which seemed less calloused than he had remembered them being. He rolled them, stretching the knuckles and grazing the fingertips against his wrist and pressing them into the side.  _

_ No heartbeat. How strange. _

_ He looked up at the barn once again. The high ceilings almost alarmed him to an extent; no man would have the means to build that high from a level ground.  _

_ What put him off the most was the silence.  _

_ It was unnatural. Unnerving. Artificial.  _

_ Normally, a mere man would be able to hear movement outside of a plain wooden barn. The sounds of slaves tending to crops, the burr of horses, or even the wind whistling through the tightly knit together wooden planks covered in polish.  _

_ He could hear none of those things.  _

_ He took a step forward, and heard nothing still; no indication of even a slight sound could be heard through his ears. He attempted to speak; contracting his throat in such a way that he could possibly get a sound out of it, but nothing came.  _

_ He decided against it and took steps forward more. He felt as if he was floating above the dirt ground below him.  _

_ The barn doors seemed shut tight as he tried to maneuver them open. They moved with ease against his force, startling him backwards as the bright light pooled into the small space.  _

_ He wished he had not opened the door, because the first thing he had noticed, was all the blood.  _

_ So, so much blood.  _

_ Men were scattered around in random places. Their bodies were intact from what he could see, the sun upraised in the clear sky, shining a blinding light down on the field in front of him. He stepped forward slowly, looking down at the scattered bodies, clothes torn and blood seeping out of them, almost coming from nowhere. As he slowly made his way to the center of the field, he began to notice the faces of the men. Clouded and white eyes stared back up at him, some mouths left open and drooling with even more blood.  _

_ As he stepped over the piles of men around him, his eyes deviated to the center of the field.  _

_ A single post stood with a noose swinging in the slight wind. Even more bodies seemed to be piled on top of each other, forming a mound at the base of the post. There was blood smeared across the wood of the post, and along the rope of the noose.  _

_ He shivered as he got closer, suddenly realizing that the men at the base of the mound had faces. Faces that he knew.  _

_ Knox. Greene. Laurens. Tilghman. His mother and father. Strong.  _

_ His brother, Lawrence.  _

_ It was only then that he looked past the post, to the far side of the field, where a small fire was blowing smoke into the sky. A single wooden spear stood out in front of it with a shape attached to the top.  _

_ He walked closer and heard the deafening silence continue to surround him. His sluggish reactions kept him from getting to the fire faster.  _

_ The spear grew in shape, and so did the object impaled on top of it. It grew a face as the details became sharper to him. It’s hair blew in the wind, flickering in front of the fire. If it had been any closer to the flames, the hair would have been singed off.  _

_ He stood still in his tracks once he realized who the face belonged to.  _

_ Alexander.  _

_ His eyes were no longer within his skull, revealing two black sockets behind half-opened eyelids. His body, the grace and lovely body, had been cut into four sections spread on either side of him, his abdomen completely hollowed out.  _

_ He then noticed that the organs that should be housed inside Alexander were now being burned in the fire.  _

_ Alexander, his sweet Alexander, the man he loved, the man who he had hoped would return to him, Alexander, Alexander, Alexander -  _

A sudden knock on his chamber door woke George from his dream. 

Oh, good God in heaven, that  _ dream-  _

“Sir!” The voice of Tilghman spoke through the door in a rush.  _ He was dead. I could have sworn he was dead -  _

Another loud knock. 

“They’ve found Hamilton!” Tilghman continued to knock as George sat up in his cot, his cloudy mind clearing from the contents of his sleep. “Sir!” 

The words his aide finally registered in his mind.  _ They’ve found Hamilton, Alexander, who was God damn dead, right before his own eyes - _

George stood up instantly, not bothering to change out of his white, thin night clothes and open the door to a similar Tilghman. 

“Where is he?” He felt himself demand, his voice cracking at the strain from the previous dream. 

Tilghman started waking down the hallway without question, George not too far behind in tow. Some of the candles along the hallway were lit and others must have burnt out down to the wick, to be replaced by morning. George wondered what time it was, so he pulled out the gold pocket watch in his trouser pocket, noticing that it was in the small hours of the early morning. 

“A sentry scouting party found them at the edge of their patrol area. Hamilton had arrived along with a sentry placed under Reed’s command, Oliver Taylor, unarmed.” Tilghman started down the stairs as George listened intently. He had forgotten to even bind his hair into a ribbon. 

“Have they said anything?” He asked. 

“No, sir. Hamilton refuses to speak to anyone but you.” 

A satisfying feeling emerged from his chest as he thought of Alexander wanting to see him. He had finally come back, and George was determined to find out why Reed’s sentry was with Alexander to begin with. 

“Who else knows about this?” George asked. 

“No one but Major General Greene, who was informed by the patrol party, the men in the party themselves, me, and you, sir.” 

Tilghman led him down the stairs to the the main tavern hall then even more so downward into the cellar holding barrels of ale, where once a spy had been held, and where George had decided to execute the boy as well. It seemed so long ago compared to the chaos that had been going on with Alexander’s disappearance. 

The door to the cellar was already unlocked when Tilghman opened the door and stepped aside, letting the General go in first out of respect. He nodded towards his aide, and stepped inside the door, towards the back of the cellar to where the prisoners were most likely held. 

His steps seemed to lag as he slowly paced to the back of the room. It felt as if he was in the dream once again, his actions and thoughts lagging behind how he would normally act. His breathing was increasing with every step he took; George’s heartbeat could be heard within his ears, so unlike the dream he had just woken up from in the safety and darkness of his quarters. 

He turned around a corner of barrels and suddenly, there he was. 

Alexander was on his knees, hands and feet tied together against a wooden post. His hair, tattered and messy, hung in his face, which was turned to the sentry at his side, who was standing against the post. Alexander wore the same clothes he had been given when he was staying at the tavern, and when George took him out to the abandoned house in the heart of Morristown. He talked to the sentry in a hushed whisper, head facing away from George. Neither man in front of him had noticed his presence yet. 

The sentry, Oliver Taylor, looked up at him, suddenly turning stiff. Alexander spoke more, but when he had noticed the sentry staring up at George, he also turned his head, finally looking up at the General. 

They connected eyes. 

_ I love you, I love you, I love you, never leave me again, please, I won’t live without you, I cannot live without you, please, I need you alive -  _

“General.” Taylor said, saluting to his commander. 

“At ease.” George simply waved his hand. “May you leave us?”

Taylor looked down at Alexander, who still had not said a word directly to George, and nodded towards the sentry, who gave a look of concern before Alexander brushed his head towards the cellar door. Taylor hesitantly walked away. 

Once the door had closed, and they were truly alone, did Alexander speak. 

“I did not run away from you.” He said, the presence of tears in his eyes. 

George did not reply to the statement. Instead, he found himself walking forward behind Alexander, and crouching down to release the bonds. The rope was tied tight, and George could not blame the patrol party of sentries for tying him up to keep him in one place. They still are under the impression that Alexander was a prisoner. 

With the ropes now done, he stood in front of Alexander, extending out his hand. 

The boy took it in his own and stood up straight on his legs. 

George took in the appearance of Alexander. He looked like a shell of what he once was. Hollowed out. 

“Did they hurt you?” George found himself asking, reaching his hand up and cradling Alexander’s face in his hand. 

“Only once.” His face pressed into George’s hand, tilting slightly so his lips barely grazed the tip of his thumb. 

“Alexander,” George sighed, letting himself relax in the small gesture. “My boy, what on living Hell happened?” 

The boy in his hand hesitated, and opened his eyes to look up at George with those gorgeous eyes of his. 

“Can we get out of this cellar?” He asked. “It is drafty in here.” 

George simply nodded and retracted his hand from Alexander’s face, leading him away from the barrels of ale and out of the door. Tilghman and Taylor still stood just in the alcove with the steps leading up to the main floor, and both looked down to George. 

“Tilghman, can you please report to me in the morning?” He asked, an idea springing to his head. “Bring Laurens with you as well.” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 

“And Tilghman?”

The aide turned around, almost fearful. 

“Keep this to yourself, and tell no one of what happened here.” George couldn’t even register his voice to his own in his head. He was tired. 

Tilghman took his leave then, continuing up the rest of the stairs and into the main corridor where the aides all slept downstairs. 

“Taylor?” George said, walking up to his level. “I would like to talk with you tomorrow. As far as this goes, no one will know that you are here. Please, feel free to stay with my aides downstairs. “When Tilghman comes to me tomorrow with Laurens, I would like you to follow them so that we may set the story straight.” 

Taylor nodded and waved to Alexander, and walked up the steps, the wooden floor boards creaking under him. 

“Let us be off to my quarters.” George simply stated to Alexander, who followed him up the steps to the main floor, and then to the second floor of the tavern. 

“This tavern looks just as shit as I remember it being.” Alexander smiled at his side as they walked through the half lit halls of the upper floor. 

Alexander hesitated in front of the door leading into the room he was previously kept in, no more sentries standing there guarding an empty space. 

“Alexander?” George asked, questioning the hesitation displayed on the boy’s face.

“Are we not going to my room?” 

George winced at the accusation. After all, it was the only thing that Alexander knew for multiple weeks at a time since they had arrived in Morristown. 

“No, my boy, We are going to my quarters.” 

Alexander’s eyes widened, but followed the general down the hall and into his own chambers. George let Alexander go through the doorway first, locking the handle behind them.

Once the latch was fully closed behind the pair, George turned to Alexander, who awkwardly stood in the center of the room, looking at the newfound surroundings. 

“I have never been here before.” Alexander said, seemingly in awe. To George, it seemed like a standard enough room for a man in his position. The same, stuffed feather cot he had with him since he had started the war. A simple desk. Two crates with his journals and clothes, along with any other personal belongings he had brought with him from Mount Vernon. 

“Do you like it?” George asked. 

“It is bigger than mine. The bed looks fuller and there is an actual desk for work.” 

George nodded, letting the pair lapse into a comfortable silence. 

“You are still in your nightclothes.” Alexander smiled, after mere minutes of just staring at the contents of the room. 

“I heard you had come back to me.” George moved to sit on the bed, maneuvering backwards so his back was straight against the wooden wall behind him. Alexander continued to stand. “I could not afford to spend another minute away from you.” 

Instead of replying, Alexander made a hesitant move to stand directly in front of George. He looked up at him, almost asking for permission to move closer. George had no idea what the boy intended to do with him, but nodded anyway, letting Alexander step into his own space between George’s legs. 

Alexander let himself spread his knees apart, placing them on either side of George’s thighs. He let his weight fall into the general’s lap, then leaning forward to place his head on George’s shoulder. The height difference between the two men was almost perfect for the pair; the General was tall enough so the younger man could fit perfectly against his chest. 

George was at first frozen to the spot. The boy in his lap sighed. 

“Come on,” Alexander sounded upset. “Put your arms around me.”

George did not take another second to refuse the request.

He lifted his arms, slowly slotting them underneath Alexander’s own and wrapped them around the thin waist in his own lap. Alexander moed his arms to link his hands together behind George’s neck, sighing into the comforting position. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened to you?” George asked, smelling the top of Alexander’s hair, as dirty as it must be. 

“Joseph Reed.” 

_ The absolute bastard. _

“He, hit me hard, the night that we were at the house. Took me somewhere outside of Morristown...I’m sure I can bring you to the field where I was kept if I was given the chance.” Alexander paused, taking in a shaky breath. “I was held there by sentries paid off by Reed. Taylor kept constant watch over me, and we became friends. He helped me escape under the impression that you would protect him from Court Martial once the conspiracy had been found out.” 

George tightened his arms around Alexander, taking in the words he was saying. 

“I will protect Taylor. He is only a young man who was manipulated.” 

“His mother lives in Maryland.” Alexander stated with a twinge of sadness. “He could not have been more than fifteen from what I gathered.” 

“Are you okay?” George inquired. He was worried about the boy in his arms. 

“For now. My imprisonment was not unlike what it had been in Trenton. If anything, it was more freeing.” 

They sat in silence for moments stretching seamlessly. George must deal with the Reed situation, and soon, before they manage to snatch Alexander away again. 

“You will never be confined to stay here again, once I get rid of Reed.” George sighed. 

“What?”

“I will keep you here, in my chambers, locked, for the moment. Once Reed is dismissed from his command, you will be free.” George was talking without thinking at the moment, too intoxicated by the feeling of closeness he had not had the opportunity to indulge in for what seemed like years. 

“Free to go where?” 

“Wherever you wish. Free to leave camp, the tavern, this army. Go back to the British, even if you would like.” George had to show that he was no longer to be Alexander’s keeper, if his boy was to return to him at any rate. “I must admit, I will miss you if you leave, however if it is what you would want -” 

“No!” Alexander suddenly interrupted, moving his head to look up directly into George’s eyes. “I never wanted to leave. If I had, I never would have returned myself to this camp, where I expected to be held captive. I want to  _ help  _ you, I want to  _ join  _ this army.” 

George’s heart stopped beating for a fleeting moment. Alexander wanting to join the cause? Was he sure on what he was getting himself into? 

And yet, George couldn’t help but smile, knowing that this was what the General had wanted all along; for Alexander to realize he was fighting the wrong side earlier in the war, come to his senses, and join the proper effort against tyranny against the people. 

“We shall discuss this later, Alexander.” 

The boy in his lap smiled back, and leaned forward at an awkward angle, letting their lips slot together in a chaste kiss. 

George felt his heart blossom into content. Alexander’s lips were dry, so unbelievably dry, and yet, George couldn't care less about the state of the lips against his. 

The kiss was slow and exploratory, very unlike the kiss that they had shared in the town house a month ago. Their lips moved together in such a way that made George feel weak in the knees; the kind of kiss that people will kill for. 

_ Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships. _

Alexander pulled away first, causing George to sigh at the loss of contact. 

“May we sleep?” He asked, sounding relaxed and content. “I am tired from the night’s travels back to camp.”

George nodded, and let his hands slip from Alexander’s side and moving to lay down on the feather cot. Alexander followed suit, this time facing away from George, and moving to have his own back flush against the General’s chest. He pulled him closer, sighing at the warmth that they combined together. 

George was asleep before he could tell Alexander just how much he loved him. 


	4. Act Two, Scene Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Joseph Reed arc of this story is OFFICIALLY done. Wow, that took so long!
> 
> Politics in America has been consuming my life lately. I'm a huge advocate for that kind of thing. If you can vote, then vote!!
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter. It might be a while until I upload the next one unfortunately. I got accepted into my top college so I will be moving away. 
> 
> I am ALWAYS thinking of this story though. I still am planning out the ending lol. Some ideas would be appreciated! 
> 
> Happy reading everyone <3

“Sir.” 

Joseph Reed was writing a simple report down onto a fresh piece of parchment. It was late; easily way past sundown since he had been confined within his officer’s quarters. Ink was smeared across the page, as well as all along the side of his hand and wrist. He was tired. 

“Enter.” He merely said, and seeing one of his own sentries come within the cracked door of his office. 

“I am afraid we have a problem.” The boy, Hewlitt, stated gravely. Reed hesitated before setting down his quill; this  _ extensive  _ report must be done by morning, and onWashington’s desk by midday. He had been putting such a document off for some time. 

“What is it?” 

“Hamilton has escaped.” 

Reed’s blood went cold within his veins. He could feel the fear start at the base of his spine, slowly inching upwards like a melting block of ice running down a table, or a spike. 

Fear was soon replaced with confusion, and most importantly,  _ anger _ . 

_ “What?”  _ He asked, voice strained once the words sunk into his brain, gaining meaning from the simple sentence. 

“Hamilton has escaped earlier tonight; one of our own has helped him.” 

It was only then that Reed looked intently at Hewlitt; his uniform was astray, hair jumbled and knotted, no cap or musket in sight. He must have ran from his post three miles away. When Reed looked more intently at the boy, he had been surprised at how he had not noticed the panting breath that the sentry gave off. 

“Leave.” 

Hewlitt left without a question, rushing out of the small office and shutting the door behind him. 

Reed felt his hands begin to shake. Washington would know of Hamilton’s captivity soon, if not already. 

Washington was on to him. He would be discharged soon, he was sure of it. 

Reed’s plan was unraveling at the seams. Washington could  _ not  _ listen to that boy. He was a danger to this army, he could make decisions for the General, he could sway the war the wrong way,  _ Hamilton was a threat.  _ He knew that much for sure, regardless of the traitorous implications of his actions against General Washington. 

Reed threw the parchment aside. He instead pulled out a new paper, one that was smaller in dimensions; the parchment meant for his own personal correspondence. 

If he cannot carry out the plan against Washington’s choices in rash decisions, he must find someone else who can. 

He sighed, pucked up his quill and dipped it into the ink, beginning the addressing line on the top of the parchment. 

_ Dear Major Charles Lee -  _

-

The first thing that Alexander could think of when he awoke, was warmth. 

His arms were wrapped with another set of hands pulled close to his own chest. A strong, solid chest was behind him, pulling Alexander ever closer to the body radiating heat behind him. His legs were tangled with another set, bare feet wrapped up in clothed ones at the end of his leg. The height difference was most notable here; Alexander sleeping on his side at a comfortable plane and the body behind him curved inward to accommodate them both on the feather cot. 

Alexander shifted, only slightly, to move his whole body on his other side. Once he had settled, he was face to face with George Washington, the leader of the revolution. 

The name used to repulse him. He could remember the first time he had heard that name; Alexander stationed in Albany, drinking at a tavern, when a group of Loyalists had barged inside the main doors, chanting how Boston had been taken over by the redcoats, and for George Washington to hang in the gallows on the great shores of England, the mother country. 

He reveled at the actions of the Loyalists. 

Albany felt so long ago, even though it must have been around five months since he had set foot astray from the city to travel to New Jersey. 

Alexander sighed as he looked at the face in front of him. It had seemed that George was almost ten years younger than he must have been. On that same note, Alexander had no idea how old George truly was. Based on the dates that he had read within the political journal of George’s time during the tenure of his service within the House of Burgesses, the General must have been at least twenty, possibly more. 

That meant that there was at least twenty years between them in total. It made Alexander cringe. 

“Will you stop staring and speak whatever it is that is bothering that beautiful mind of yours, Alexander?” George suddenly asked, eyes remaining closed and voice scratchy. 

Alexander faltered. 

“I wasn’t thinking of anything significant.” 

“My boy,” George moved to bring Alexander closer to him, tightening his arms. “Everything you think is significant, at least to me.” 

Alexander hesitated before answering. What did it matter of the General’s age? Certinly not the law; they were already breaking such a low of same sex. They would be hung if someone found out about them, regardless of rank. It was a sin, Alexander knew that much without being a Godly man. 

“I was just thinking of your age. I was not even born when you first started to run for political office within Virginia.” He calmly stated. George did not reply, his eyes blissfully closed.

“I was born in thirty two. My birthday had recently passed, but I almost told no one of such a thing, so it preceded without celebration.” 

Alexander did the simple math in his head. He was twenty six when Alexander was born. 

_ This changes nothing.  _

“I have a proposition for you.” George sat up, leaving Alexander laying down on the bed, and he shifted to his back so he could look up to George. 

“What is it?” He asked. 

“You said you wanted to help the war effort.” George maneuvered to lay his back against the wall, not too unlike the previous night, still looking down at Alexander. “I have asked Laurens to return to me this morning, and I will instruct him to teach you the duties of being a personal aide, much like he is to me, along with the rest of my staff.” 

Alexander was speechless. 

He was to be given a job? An actual job? He had expected to be properly enlisted and trained to fight, to own a batallion so he may lead them into battle, and to answer commands directly under the General. What he had not expected, was to be told that he was to write, and carry out duties a mere child may be able to complete. 

“And what will I...be expected to do? As an aide?” 

“Normal duties consist of transcribing letters, delivering them when necessary, writing my official letters and statements, and anything else I may need.” George reached out, letting his hand rest on Alexander’s cheek. “You will only answer directly to me, and if needed, Major General Greene. I will introduce you to each other soon.” 

Alexander paused. 

“Why Greene?”

“He knows of what we are.” 

He let the words sink in from George’s mouth. Another soldier - no, an officer, given the rank - knew about him and George? How could he? They must not have been careful enough, they could be  _ hung  _ for this - 

“My boy,” George squeezed his hand along Alexander’s jaw, who must have noticed his panic. “I am the one who told him.” 

That relaxed Alexander slightly, his jaw dissolving of the tension from clenching them so hard against George’s hand. 

Alexander had no sense of the time when he was with George. They had obviously been asleep since the very early morning, and Alexander had yet to change out of the dirty clothes he had escaped from the clutches of Reed. The bottom of his trouser legs were covered in a thin film of dirt from running through the woods with Taylor, and his shirt was crumpled from where he had been tugging at the sleeves. 

“I am not clean.” He said, shifting his head down so he would be able to look at his tattered clothes. They seemed to cringle as he moved, so stale and brittle from the earlier night’s work. 

“I will have a bath drawn for you as soon as we discuss the means of your work.” George reached for Alexander’s arm, lifting his knuckles up to his own lips. George kissed each knuckle, causing Alexander to sigh into the sensation. 

“I still have your pocket watch on me.” Alexander let his eyes slip closed. “In my left pocket.” 

“I have no other expectation than other your utmost care towards it.” 

Alexander smiled as George continued to kiss his hand, all the way up to his wrist. He relaxed into the sensation, letting himself feel the chapped lips of the General graze his skin. He began to feel the faintest arousal deep within his belly, and if he wasn’t in such an odd mood of anticipation for the day forthcoming, he might have acted on those feelings. 

The sudden knock at the door caused Alexander to freeze in his place. 

“It is okay, Alexander.” George’s voice soothed him from his anxiety. “It is just Laurens, Tilghman, and Taylor. They are here to help you, especially Laurens.” 

George sat up and maneuvered himself over Alexander to reach the wooden floors, leaving him in the bed with his hair strewn out around him. He attempted to relax into the sheets, letting his heart rate slow from the anxiety caused by the knock. 

He was facing away from the door when he had heard it open, and hushed, murmured voices carried them to Alexander’s ears. He was too tired to pay any attention to the content of their words. 

“Alexander.” George was suddenly within his field of vision, hovering above the bed that they previously had slept in. “Come on, you must get up for your work to be completed for today.” 

At the promise of doing work, Alexander sat up as quickly as he could without injuring his already tired body, mind no longer clouded as it had been when he laid down in George’s bed. 

He rose to his feet, and took into account the faces of Laurens, Tilghman, and of course, his friend Taylor. The latter of the men looked especially tired, dark circles under his eyes as his posture seemed to be one of an old man; slouched and relax. He must have only gotten up from the confines of sleep. 

Laurens, hair pulled back into a neat ribbon and coat buttoned up to the collar, not so much as a wrinkle in the continental uniform. His eyes were sharp and focused, his posture sharply contrasting that of Taylor; Laurens’ spine seemed to have a stiff wooden rod pulled through. Was that how Alexander was expected to behave around the General in due time? 

Tilghman, seemed to be a mix between the two men. His face seemed to convey nothing but tiredness and sleep, but his stature implied that of respect towards George. He also had the same uniform displayed across his broad shoulders, seemingly well kept as Laurens had his own.

“At ease, men.” George simply stated with a wave of his hand, and all three boys in front of Alexander seemed to sag back into a comfortable position. Laurens shifted his weight to one foot as the General continued. 

“Laurens, I wish for you to take Alexander on a tour among the camp today, and then introduce him to the basic duties of an aide to myself.” The aide nodded at the order. “However, please bring Alexander to the depository and change his attire, to one of an aide. Fitted blue coat, stationary white underclothes and trousers. Then continue to follow orders.” 

George turned to Alexander, and paused, noticing the fearful look on his own face. He had not wanted to leave; not with the threat of Reed so imminent against him. 

“Laurens is trained in shooting rifles. He will protect you as you move throughout camp, and I order that you remain away from the officer’s tent. This is the only time I will allow you to leave my quarters.” 

_ I order, _

Alexander cringed. His demeanor had completely changed from that of not only five minutes ago, when they were alone within the bed.  _ If he wishes, it shall be so,  _ he thought. 

“Yes, General Washington.” Alexander moved to stand beside Laurens, not bothering to look at the face that had given the orders. He had no urge to look at it any longer than he should have. 

“Dismissed.” 

George’s voice sounded clipped, and effectively distant. Alexander would have to bring up that fact later. 

Instead, for that moment, he turned on his heel, following Laurens out and into the hall. 

“I must fetch my rifle from down stairs, and then we can continue to the depository with the new supplies.” Laurens smiled, and Alexander returned the gesture, following in the aide’s footsteps. 

He thought of the boy as a ray of sunshine during the dark of the tavern. He had seemed kind within the few moments they had met, and Alexander was intrigued to know more about Laurens as they descended down the stairs and past the tavern’s main doors leading into the bar. 

Alexander had slowed his walk as he had passed the great wooden doors. He had seen them before; when they had slightly opened when he walked past the drunks and the men singing to war tunes, back when George had to sneak the boy outside of the tavern for a walk. 

It had seemed as though a year had passed within his month spent away from the tavern. 

Currently, no man had been inside of the great room lined with tables and chairs, and the long wooden bar of wood where drinks were often served. Instead, only one man stood there, cleaning glass cups and setting aside wood goblets for ale. 

Suddenly, Laurens was at his side, looking into the tavern as well. Paintings of the countryside had been hung on the wooden walls, giving the tavern a feel of home that Alexander could never relate to. 

“Have you not seen this place?” Laurens asked, and Alexander only shook his head, taking in the warm light of the candles. 

“Come.” the other boy tugged at Alexander’s dirty white shirt, and Alexander slowly peeled his eyes away from the empty tavern, following Laurens outside of the front door to be greeted by a rising sun, and cold air whispering across his face. 

He had not seen Morristown in the light of day before. The sun, rising in the east above the small houses and general stores, shone with a tint of dimly lit emotion, casting shadows across the main road where the tavern sat in the center of town. The snow from the previous week was just beginning to melt completely, evidence of such a fact was clear the night before, when Alexander had escaped from Reed’s hands. The snow, melting, left mud trails all along the main road of Morristown, and flooded the lawns of the town houses that lined the road as well. 

Alexander sighed, bringing in the cold air directly to his lungs. He felt at ease. 

Laurens let him pander as they began to walk down the main steps of the tavern. Alexander, taking in the colors of the barren trees and the muddy ground. It all seemed so dead to him; as if nothing was to survive in the cold of New Jersey. 

He simply followed Laurens down the path of the main road, trailing behind him at a meandering pace. No single soul seemed to be out this morning, for the sun had only just risen; the only people that would rise this early, that Alexander knew of, would be plantation slaves that he had heard stories about in Albany. Long stretches of field, with the blistering sun shining on the backs of colored workers, desperate for something more in their lives. 

Slavery. The bane of these colonies, if it was not for the British presence. 

They continued to walk down the street, to what had seemed to be a field in the middle of town, tents scattered across the barren and muddy grass that must have turned brown months ago. Alexander continued to walk at whatever slow pace he wanted, Laurens raising his rifle and surveying the area as they made their way past the tents, progressing down the road until they reached a small barn. 

Laurens simply swung his rifle over his shoulder and opened the large doors, inviting Alexander inside with a wave of his hand into the wooden structure. 

Alexander slowly stepped inside, and was shrouded in darkness before a simple torch was lit against the wall, Laurens taking it off of the metal holster and carrying it through the darkness, lighting the barn from the inside, where the sun did not reach. 

“The doors just, remain open?” Alexander asked, looking at the crates on both sides of his body as he walked. “Would there not be concern of a British raid?” 

“They have yet to find us, here.” Laurens said, finding the correct crate and holding out the torch. Alexander took it. 

“What of the townspeople?” 

“We protect them.” Laurens finally got a strong grip on the crate’s opening and using his strength, he pulled the cover open, exposing clean uniforms that were neatly folded and stacked upon one another. “We trust them not to raid our limited supplies to begin with.” 

Laurens sifted through the box, and Alexander held out the torch so the aide would be able to see inside of the crate. He lifted up a blue overcoat, holding it up to Alexander’s sagged and relaxed form, and folded it neatly before putting it in the crook of his arm. He grabbed a few pairs of similar looking under clothes; shirts and trousers to be worn under the uniform coat of the General’s aide. 

“I do not think the townspeople will have much use for this, anyway.” Laurens lifted the pile of clothes for Alexander to see. They exchanged goods; Alexander giving the torch back to Laurens, who lifted the pile of clothes into his own arms. 

They left the barn, and Alexander noticed noises coming from the field where the tents had been set up. Men - no, soldiers - begin to file out of the tents, woken up by the rising sun though the cloth, setting up fires and huddling close together in groups. Alexander watches them as Laurens puts out the torch in the melting snow, and gripping his rifle in his hands once more. 

“We, as soldiers, call that the green.” Laurens is at his side, also looking at the men rising with the day beginning in Morristown. “Some men are stationed outside of the town, for patrols, but most of them are here, waiting out the winter.” 

Alexander took in the faces of these men. Most must have been cold, or at the very least weak, for their postures seemed to give off that of a beaten child. 

“Is that all there is to camp?” He asks Laurens. 

“For now, until we decide to relocate. I am afraid it is not the best idea that we take a tour of the green.” He walks in front of Alexander, making his way back to the tavern. “It is not safe.” 

Alexander could only nod as they made their way back down the main road, their boots sloshing in the snow. 

It was unnervingly quiet, during the light of day, in Morristown. When Alexander had made his way through the night a month ago, he had expected quiet; everyone had been asleep, even the soldiers, and it had just been him and George, walking down the main road. The only exception was the occasional sentry patrol passing them. 

They had made it to the tavern, safely. Laurens once more opened the door for Alexander, and he had a fleeting thought that he might have been ordered to do so. It wasn’t as if he could not open his own door. 

Making their way through the halls, Laurens takes him to the aide’s room at the end of the first floor. 

Alexander took in the room in front of him. It had been at least four times as big as his older room which he was confined inside of on the upper level of the tavern. Inside the aide’s room, there were beds lining the wall on the furthest side, away from the door. There were only six. On the other side, nearest to the doorway, were desks; only four of them were properly filled, and two more for spare. In the center of the room, lining the walls, were crates. They all had seemed to be half opened. 

“It is not much.” Laurens moved past Alexander, and went to the desk furthest from them all, pulling out the chair to look upwards back at the door. 

“It is enough, Laurens. Thank you.” Alexander stepped inside the room fully, and outstretched his hand, attempting to shake the other aide’s. 

“It’s John.” Laurens - John, now - smiled, taking Alexander’s hand. 

Alexander had felt at home, here, within the room filled with desks and beds. It was meager, and for once in his life, he felt as if though simplicity might be a good thing. 

_ Anything I may be of service to my new General _ , he thought, and cringed at his own words. It would have to be that way. 

He had officially turned. And it had been time to go against what he had been brought up to think. What does he have to lose?

Unbeknownst to him, at that moment, Alexander, had in fact, everything to lose. 

-

George heard the scribbling of the quill against the parchment that Tilghman currently possessed. 

The General had been grilling Private Taylor on every single detail he could muster about Joseph Reed, the whole operation, dates, times, and every step he had made when in the possession of Alexander. 

Taylor had been very cooperative with George, and he had thought so due to the fact that he was simply the General, and he commanded respect through every possible front within the war. It was not because of his impeccable record, or because of his money, but for his rank. 

Taylor had no true idea of who he was, but still followed through with George’s demands. 

Not to imagine the small stunt, so to say, pulled by Alexander earlier that morning. 

It had surprised him, to say the least. It almost seemed as if Alexander had purposely called him General, to spite him. However, all those weeks ago in Trenton, he told the boy that one day, he would be called General. He supposes, in a way, he should be happy about the change in mood. 

To George, it seemed almost disassociative. Cold, and disconnected. He couldn’t take his mind off of it. 

“Is that all?” George asked after the story had been meticulously picked and combed through twice over. 

“It is all I can remember, sir.” Taylor nervously ran his hand through his hair. “All of it.” 

George must go through his original decision to discharge Joseph Reed from the army; his fault in this was undeniable. Paying sentries to keep Alexander away from him; stealing him away for personal reasons and those political in nature. 

_ Why had he done such a thing? _

“Then you are properly dismissed, Taylor.” George waved his hand, and expected the boy to rush away from the table that he currently was seated at; but instead he didn’t move from his wooden chair. 

George looked up and made eye contact with the young man in front of him. His eyes had a look to them that would signal fear, but his face was painted in surprise. 

“Is that all, sir?” He asked, leaning forward until his forearms were on the table in front of him, and George assumed the boy was trying to get closer to him. 

“Is there anything else you would like to add?” George curiously looked over to Tilghman, who returned a look of curiosity. 

“Am I not going to be punished, sir?” Taylor’s eyes seemed fearful about the general in front of him. George looked to his hands, who were gripped white against the chair he sat in. 

“No, you will not.” George decided to speak, after a beat of silence. He has thought of this before, that morning laying in Alexander’s arms, deciding that he should not hold the boy responsible for something he did not know what he was getting into. Alexander had even said that Taylor had followed Reed due to looking for increased pay. 

Something that George himself hated. The men in his army need to be paid. 

“You will be reassigned under Officer Greene,” George started, standing from his chair, causing Tilghman and Taylor to follow suit. "I will make sure your transition is smooth, Taylor."

George stuck his hand out to shake Taylor's. His grip was firm for a young man; George admired that of him. He found Taylor trustworthy, and was glad Alexander trusted him with escaping the clutches of Reed. 

His Alexander has retured for good. 

“Now,” George turned to the two men in front of him, letting a smirk graze his face. “I have some business to attend to.” 

Both Tilghman and Taylor looked at him with a confused look, but realization dawned upon the soldier whom George had just shook his hand with. 

“Reed?” He asked, looking fearful. 

“Yes,” George clasped his hand on Taylor’s shoulder out of respect. “It is time I deal with Reed and his tratorious ways.”

-

“Here,” John held out a piece of parchment, which Alexander took and unfolded. “A list of frequent correspondence and their relation to General Washington, rank included.” 

Alexander grazed his eyes over the names. Some, he had heard in passing mention. Knox, Greene, Adams; the main officers of the army and delegates of Congress. As his eyes darted down the list, his eyes landed on two of particular interest. The first, was Martha Washington, with the word ‘wife’ neatly scrawled next to it. The second, near the bottom of the list, was Lawrence Washington, which was crossed out twice in ink that must have dried years ago. 

“It is an old list,” John further explained. “This is merely a copy of the main parchment, which Washington often updates himself.” 

Alexander furrowed his brow, but nodded, folding the paper and sticking it into the clothes he had been given. 

“Is that all?” He asked, and John just nodded in response. 

“I would like to show you around camp, if you allow me to.” John pointed to the empty desk in front of him. “Set your clothes down for now.”

“That was an order from the General.” Alexander spoke before he thought better of the statement. “It is not as if we have a choice in the matter.” 

John stared at Alexander as he moved to set down the new uniform, almost throwing it down in anger. 

“You are not used to the new situation, I understand that.” He stepped closer to Alexander. “But talk like that isn’t appreciated around here. We all serve the General, official rank or not, paid work or volunteer, we serve his every need. It is our duty to this forming nation.” 

Alexander felt the need to vomit. John had seemed so passionate of the war effort, following a blind trust to George which Alexander could only grow to learn. Maybe committing to George so quickly had been a mistake.

“I understand.” he could only reply with gritted teeth. 

“Let us be off, then.” 

John brushed past Alexander, bumping into his shoulder; a sign of hostility, causing Alexander to widen his eyes in panic. 

He was suddenly reminded of the British soldiers on the Navy ship when he was a teenager. Grimy hands, unwashed bodies sliding over him, rats, so many rats, the screams of dying slaves being transported across the Atlantic-

“Are you coming?”    
  
John’s voice cut him out of the memories, quickly grounding him back to the solid floor of the tavern in Morristown. 

“Yes, I apologize.” 

Alexander followed John out of the aide’s room, and outside of the tavern, where the cold air pierced his lungs once again. Clouds had begun to roll in, casting large shadows across the town. The sun continued to rise. 

Alexander walked at John’s side all throughout the tour of the small encampment on the Green of the town square. He had pointed out some key tents, such as where Knox and Greene completed their daily operations, and where the food was distributed. 

“Why are we staying away from the west side of camp?” Alexander asked, slowly pacing next to John as they began their way to meet Greene. 

“That is where Reed is. I have been ordered to steer you away from him.” 

Alexander gritted his teeth, for remembering the ‘orders’ he was under, and imagining Reed’s face smirking down at him when they had first met, in the tent. 

“This is Greene.” John stopped abruptly, causing Alexander to nearly trip over his own feet to stop moving in time with him. 

The tent was larger than most of the others. The green cloth looked nearly perfectly stretched along the internal poles holding up the frame. It was a nice tent, giving off the vibe that it was obviously an officer’s quarters. 

“Officer Greene,” John called out through the flaps. “Permission to enter? I am here with Alexander Hamilton.” 

“Just Hamilton.” A muffled voice said through the flaps. 

Alexander glanced at John in fear, almost. He had not expected to go in by himself. And if what George said was true, then Greene had already known about Alexander’s relationship to the General, and he had no idea how the senior officer would react to meeting him. 

He swallowed the feeling and opened the flaps to the large tent, stepping inside. 

It was immediately warmer within the confines of the tent. Candles were lit left and right, causing a dim hue to fall over the small confinement. A large desk was displayed in the middle of the space, littered with papers. To Alexander’s left, a small cot, with a nightstand next to it, another candle gracing the top of the wood. Greene was sitting behind the desk, quill in hand, writing on a piece of parchment. Alexander stood still, waiting for the officer in front of him to look up after he had done his work. 

“Alexander Hamilton.” Greene draws out, and he can sense a faint northern accent.  _ Is Greene from New York? _ He finds himself thinking. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Oh, please,” The officer stood up from his desk, a faint smile drawing out on his features. “Drop the formalities. I know how you must feel about switching ideals so suddenly.” 

Greene rounded the desk and stood in front of Alexander, holding out his hand so the younger between the two could shake it. 

Alexander stood still for a moment. Greene understood his situation. He had understood the magnitude of his switch. 

He took Greene’s hand. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Alexander made sure to keep his grip firm. 

“You are the man that George is willing to throw away the Revolutionary cause for.” He simply stated, and Alexander half expected a follow up question, but got no answer. 

“I am not sure of the lengths he would go for me.” He decided to say. Greene motioned to have Alexander sit in front of the desk in the small wooden chair, and the younger of the pair gladly took the opportunity to rest his legs. 

“He was a mess, when he found out you were gone.” Greene also took the chair in front of Alexander, leaning to one side of the seat, resting his elbow among the wooden arm and resting his head into his palm. 

“Was he?” 

“Yes.” Greene sighed out. “I caught him, or, managed to, after he had found out. I was lucky to be in the tavern.” 

Alexander stayed quiet, silently asking Greene to continue. 

“He was incredibly irritable. At first, he had known you were even gone, and it is selfish to admit, that neither did I.” Greene looked down to his desk in shame. “We had received provisions from Congress, the day that you were supposed to have been taken back to the room upstairs in the tavern. Reed had not seemed different, or that he even knew of such a plan. There was an execution that day. He had seemed quite shaken up. 

“Yet, he had not visited you for two weeks. He had told me, later, that it was his coming on to you, that prevented him from going back sooner. He was worried you might think ill of him.” 

“I do not.” Alexander interrupted, but Greene held up his hand to signal quiet. Alexander shut his mouth and let the man continue. 

“And yet, when he did visit you, he found the room in disarray. It had been left the exact same way as when you had left. And before I knew it, the new aide, John Laurens, had rushed to fetch me when he had heard shouts from the council room within the tavern. I had entered and seen our very General with his hands against Reed, pinning him to the wall, demanding an answer of where you had gone. Reed avoided responding. 

“After Reed had left, I asked him what his emotions were based on. He told me of your, interaction, with him, and in a way, I defended you.” 

“Defended?” Alexander asked. 

“Yes. I had said that it would be a possibility of your attempted escape from camp. In the end, no matter how comfortable he made you, or praised you, or listened to you, Hamilton, you were yet a prisoner here, and I could only assume of your longing to be set free back to the British lines.” 

“I had thought about it.” Alexander admitted, causing Greene to finally look up from studying the cracks in the wooden desk. “However, in the end, I did choose to stay, during my captivity. I wanted to fight for your side after he had read the entirety of Common Sense to me.” 

“And yet,” Greene continued his speech. “Common Sense is yet a propaganda stunt, to speed along the war in its roots. It is one-sided, and while I wholeheartedly believe in the revolutionary cause, I am yet skeptical of the origin of belief.” 

“Oh.” Alexander stated. He had not expected a senior officer to have doubts. If anything, on the behalf of the cause, he expected blind loyalty. 

“I am not blindly loyal to the general,” Greene said, almost as if he could read the expression among Alexander’s face. “He has earned my use as an officer and he has earned my trust. He is a great man, and I do hope you realize that our cause is truly just, despite your rush to defend it, without realizing the true amount of why.” 

Alexander sat back in the chair, truly absorbing the words. How could the cause be just, if he was to blindly follow orders from such a General as George is? He is tactical, informative, decisive. 

He could not know that it would be his feelings that would come spilling out of his mouth next. 

“I care about him.” Was all he said, at first, but continued after a slight pause. “I care about George. I care about his health, his strategy, his ways of being a general and being commanding to his officers and troops. I wish to help, not only because I am more useful here than a simple infantry man on the British lines, but also because I wish to be close to him. He has cared for me, even as a prisoner. No one has done that to me before.” 

Greene slightly smiled into the palm of his hand holding his face up. 

“Then you have found your cause.” 

“What is yours?” he found himself asking Greene. 

“I am but a mere Quaker man from Pennsylvania,” He remarked. “I believe in the right to be able to live in peace, away from British tyranny over the subjects it deems inferior to those who live on an island across the sea. I believe in peace.” 

“That is a statement I thought I would never hear, in a time of war.” Alexander slightly laughed, finding irony in the statement from the pacifist in front of him.

“It is so.” 

Greene stood, and held out his hand once more for Alexander to shake. His grip was firmer this time; more sure of his situation here and calling to the cause. 

“I expect to see you achieve great things here, Alexander.” Greene let his hand fall. “Do please, take care of the man. He is burning the candle upon both ends.” 

Alexander nods, and walks out when Greene chooses not to dismiss him. 

He finds John still waiting outside for him, sharing a pipe with a soldier nearby, drinking out of a small wooden cup that had been steaming along the top into the cold air. His hair had been let down over his shoulders, the curly waves cascading in locks down his uniform. 

Suddenly, Alexander could see the eyes of other soldiers looking at him from their various positions throughout the camp. Most of the soldiers were standing, since the snow had begun to melt slightly into mud, and they whispered amongst themselves for a moment before Alexander swallowed the feeling of being watched and strode over to John. 

“Alexander!” he cheered as he strode over. “Forgive me, I thought you would have been longer. I decided to unwind a bit.” 

Alexander just shook his head and said it was alright. 

“Should you be working on letters for the General?” Alexander asked, genuinely curious. 

“All of my work assigned for the week is done. I am merely waiting on new letters.” He says in a relaxed tone, handing the pipe back to the soldier. “Are you ready to head back over to the tavern?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, I think I can head back myself. I must only grab my things from the aide’s room and return to Washington’s quarters for more orders.” 

He cringes at his word choice. 

_ I care about him, that is my cause. I care about him, that is my cause. I care about him, that is my cause.  _

“Well, alright then.” John sticks his hand out as well, much as Greene did so only a moment earlier. “I hope to see you soon upon our team, Alexander.” 

He tried not to pay attention to how soft his grip was in his hand before Alexander found his way back to the tavern, walking slowly on the main street of Morristown. 

It must have been mid-morning by that point, for the townspeople are now bustling about, walking in the middle of the street since no carriage could be seen upon the rugged stone hastily laid down on the street. Women in long frocks held arms with men in the classical style of the decade; Alexander could never keep up with the fashion statements of the years as they flew by. He had never needed to pay attention to them, for his time on the British Navy ship had not needed such a skill. 

INstead of focusing on his past, he slowly walked, seeing the people of the town start their day. It was relaxing. They had not known the horrors of the soldiers encamped within their town’s green. For now, they were calm, collected, and went upon their business. 

Alexander wondered if they had helped the cause, and what each of their reasons for it were. He had wondered how the war even affected their own little lives; how the new mothers would feel of their children being born into a nation at war, how the church priests would feel teaching a religion that either supported or condemned, or how the sellers in the market felt when taking paper money from the soldiers. 

It had seemed so complicated now that he was alone with his thoughts, and his only solution he could hope to have was George Washington, teaching him about the war from the other side. 

As he stepped into the tavern, he was grateful to find it empty; or at least, empty on the first floor, from what he could see upon the main bar within the entrance.

The aide’s room was empty of people as well, which he appreciated. He quickly grabbed his things; the new uniform, the boots, the parchment containing the list of names for George. He had double checked to make sure he had everything. 

He walked to the stairs, much like he had done so before after his walk with George the first time, when he had actually come back from their venture. 

So, now, Alexander found himself standing in front of George’s private quarters, feeling no true urge to go in. Now that he had found a cause to believe in, he had to follow through with the plan. 

George was his cause. 

At first, he placed his hand on the doorknob with no thought otherwise. He had been ordered to come back, and here he was, standing in front of the wooden door, hesitating to go in. Before he even started his first day as an aide, Alexander could tell that following orders from George was already going to be hard. 

He knocked instead, but received no answer. Alexander let himself in. 

The room was empty. It looked the same as he had left it this morning. 

Alexander breathed out a sigh of relief. He would have some time to think things over before George had returned. 

_ I care about him, he is my cause,  _ he repeated in his mind once again, and set the uniform aside on the cot where George and him had slept that night. Alexander sat in the chair before the desk, and pulled out the list, beginning to memorize the names and ranks listen upon there. 

-

George stood outside of Joseph Reed’s tent on the outskirts of town, his fist clenched and his teeth grinding against one another. His dentures would surely need to be replaced soon if he had continued to grind them like he did. 

He entered the tent without an announcement. Reed had not deserved such a commodity when he is about to no longer serve his army. 

Reed was in a wooden chair in the corner of the test, a cup of what seemed to be a steaming brew of tea in his right hand, a book in his left, perched on his thigh. His face seemed relaxed as his posture was slouched against the frame of the chair. George could see the book within his hands;  _ An Innovative History on Cannon Fire _ . 

“Officer Reed.”George says, clipped, when the man in the chair does not bother to look up. 

“I see you, Washington, do not fret.” Reed sipped the tea within the cup and set it aside, marking the page and setting the book among the small nightstand beside the chair. 

“I have come to deliver a letter to you.” Was all George had said before reaching into his breast pocket of the coat he wore that morning. The letter was sealed with George’s personal wax seal grazing the folds of the letter. He pulled it out and dropped it into the now empty lap of Reed, who had not bothered to move from his position. 

“The General hand-delivers letters now?” Reed asked, flipping the parchment over and seeing the General’s seal grazing the top. 

“Oh.” He said. His hands stilled. 

“I am giving you a letter of discharge. You will leave immediately. I have soldiers waiting outside to escort you off of encampment grounds. If you do not leave, then I will have my men force you to.” George nearly took all of his composure to not yell and to remain calm to Reed, and not grab the man out from the tent and force him into the melting snow. 

Reed just laughs. 

“You expect me to leave willingly? To leave you with that scum of the Crown in our own ranks?” Reed stays seated, which bothered George even more. “We are fighting for the same cause, here.” 

“No.” George stepped forward. “You have gone behind the back of the General of the Continental Army. You have privately hired men to defy orders, sneak away a prisoner, and have paid them under the table. You have ruined an innocent boy’s life, Oliver Taylor, who had only taken your money so he may be able to pay debt and to send money to his mother. You have taken Alexander, showing him how much he wants to fight for our cause. This is grounds for treason.” 

“Oh, I don’t think I myself had inspired him to join the cause.” Reed stands up, slinking his way to stand next to George before leaning in to whisper in his ear. “If anything, I might have planted the seeds of betrayal within his mind to  _ reject  _ the cause, for it was  _ I,  _ a senior officer in this revolution, to steal him away.” 

George’s blood ran cold. 

“I will stand outside your tent until you are packed to leave.” he abruptly turned to walk outside before he could smash his fist into the arrogant face of Reed; George would have loved to see that overly large nose crack under his hand. 

He did leave that tent without doing such damage, however. 

A crowd of soldiers stood outside of the tent as well, waiting for their General to leave the tent of the officer. They all stood, antsy, for George to speak as his coat dragged along the ground behind him. 

He noticed Greene standing there with the other soldiers, looking at George with concern. 

“He is going?” The officer asks, staring right past George when he walks over and at the tent. “Is this why there are armed men here?” 

“Yes.” George turns to the tent as well, standing at Greene’s side. “He is leaving. The tent is surrounded and he will be escorted off the campgrounds, in which I will accompany him.” 

“Where will he go?” Greene sounds almost dazed. 

“Wherever he wishes. I will sign the parchment detailing his traveling privileges.” 

They stood in silence for a few minutes, just watching the tent and waiting for Reed to emerge with a chest of his belongings. George had considered asking for his uniform back, but ultimately decided against it. Reed had still served this army well, otherwise, he would not be a senior officer within his ranks. He had the honor to retain the uniform, but will be stripped of his rank, and will never be able to return. 

Reed did eventually emerge from the confines of his tent, a small satchel thrown over his shoulder. 

“Is that all of your belongings?” He walked to Reed, asking the simple question so he could leave as soon as possible. 

“There isn’t much I have to take.”

Reed still had a sly smirk amongst his face. He knew he was still playing George, and he knew that whatever he knew was going on between him and Alexander could falter at any moment. 

But George trusted Alexander; he trusted the boy, he  _ loved  _ the boy. He was sure of it. 

George whistled for the other soldiers to follow him as the group of guards and the General followed Reed out of the green and to the main street. Officer Green was behind them, somewhere lost in the crowd of guards following them. 

Washington had inscripted most of Greene’s men to follow Reed outside of camp; he needed men he could trust. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust his own men, but with the whole fiasco of spies going against him to keep Alexander away from his hands. 

_ Why did Reed feel so strongly about the subject? _

They did reach the end of camp, eventually, right before the town disappeared into a thicket of trees and barren roads that winded through to other towns and uncharted country. 

Reed stopped, and turned, grabbing a coat from the satchel over his shoulder. He turned to George as he began to slip his arms into the sleeves. 

“I do wish your new  _ pet  _ the best in his adventure here.” He spat, glaring at his formal General. “Let us pray he does not get into harm's way.” 

Reed held out a travel parchment.  _ So,  _ George thought as he skimmed the handwriting,  _ he wishes to go to Philadelphia.  _ He had a quill within his pocket, and quickly took ino from Reed and signed the parchment quickly before practically throwing it back to him. 

“Never return.” George warned. 

“Oh, I surely will not.” Reed began to walk down the winding path through the forest, but turned back after only a few steps. “I may not return, but believe me when I say, that boy will be your downfall, George Washington.” 

As Reed leisurely walked down the path, not quite fast enough in his own opinion, George felt his heart skip a beat within his erratic chest.  _ What could that have possibly meant?  _

“Sir.” Greene was at his side once more, watching Reed go, the crowd of guards fizzling away from them. “I wish to speak with you, before you return to Alexander in your quarters.” 

George could only nod and turn to his friend, after finally seeing Reed swing past the trees and finally disappear to his destination. 

“I talked to the boy.” Greene said after it was only the two of them by the edge of the forest. “He is only here for you.” 

“Only here for me?” George asked, needing clarification. 

“He cares very much of you, and he has rushed to fight for what you fight for, not sure if he believes it in himself. That is a great trust that he has put on you.” Greene crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Please do not waste it. He is a brilliant young man.” 

“That, he is.” George agreed. “I must return to him. We have much to discuss.” 

"I am sure you do, George." Greene held out his hand for George to shake, which he took with fondness. 

"Thank you, Nathanael." 

And with that George walked back into town, leaving Greene behind to surely gather his thoughts. It had been a long morning so far. 

As George made his way back to the tavern, where Alexander was sure to be, he looked at the rooftops of the houses around him, not rushing to get back to the tavern, but surely not taking his time on walking down the street. With the snow melting, the ground now was steeped with mud, causing his boots to slosh with every step. 

Alexander was on his side. It was based on affection; George knew that much just from what Greene had told him. However, the boy was still with him, fighting because George was fighting. Fighting for the freedom of the nation. Fighting for what he believed in. Alexander believed in George; that was all he needed to allow him to accept the boy into his life. 

He reached the tavern's front door, kicking one of the front portico's columns to get most of the mud off of his boot before he tread into the makeshift headquarters. It would be rude for the bar owner. 

George made his way up the stairs. His heart began to speed up within his chest; Alexander was his. Alexander was  _ his.  _

(Though, it years time, it would soon become Alexander  _ was  _ his. But how could George have known that?)

The door to his personal quarters was slightly cracked open, light from the day streaming through to the wooden floor before the door. Alexander must have returned, and George was happy for that; it meant that he was no longer within reach of Reed and his minions that lurked through camp. 

He pushed it open, sticking his head through, to see Alexander lazily sitting across his desk chair, the coat that George had brought to him so long ago draped across those broad shoulders of his young body. The body that had been in his own arms that morning. 

“I see you have made yourself comfortable.” He remarked, fully opening the door to see the boy clearly. He looked up from the small parchment in his hands, shifting slightly to move the hair away from his face. 

“It seems I have.” Alexander hopped off the desk to stand in front of George, saluting in respect. 

“Now, Alexander.” He lifted his hand to make the boy stand at ease. “It seems we have some things to discuss, do we not?”    
  
The boy in front of him could only nod, folding the paper in his hand and slipping it into George’s coat pocket that Alexander now wore so proudly. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” He asked first, carefully, watching Alexander’s face for any sign of doubt or remorse on his face. If that is how the aide in front of him really felt, then he did not show it, his face remaining unchanged and seemingly unphased by the question. 

“George,” He started, remaining at his place. “Though you believe what you fight for is right, I may never fully understand your reasons, no matter how many pamphlets you make me read to the sound of your voice.” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but Alexander cut him off. 

“What I do believe in, is you.” The boy in front of him sighed. “I believe that you believe your wants and actions are in the right. I may never come around to those terms. I need you to understand that much as fact before we continue.”    
  
George cringed. There he stood, being told by a mere  _ boy _ what he may and may not believe, and listening wholeheartedly. George understood that his men may have fought for many different reasons against the British, though he had not expected this from Alexander, of all men. 

“I expect to be used for my knowledge.” He continued. “I do wish to fight, to show my skills, and to eventually adapt to your view of this world we grace our presence in. I want to believe in you, and that may take time.” 

“I want to give you all the time you need,” George stepped forward, trying to compromise. “I want you to understand why we do this, and I want you to stay.” 

Alexander seemed to physically relax. In the future, George may have scolded himself for letting his will bend so easily for the young man in front of him, but nothing mattered in that moment besides Alexander saying that he indirectly cared for him. 

_ I love the boy,  _ was his only answer. 

“Then I shall stay. For you.” Alexander clarified, his posture now fully loose and relaxed from the conversation that had just taken place. “Am I now expected to be strictly professional with you? As in, how may I address a superior officer in the British Army?” 

“In public, in the presence of the army or civilians, then yes, you must.” He must be honest with the boy if they were to get anywhere. “But for now, you may drop the act. This is not Trenton; I will not force you when we are alone.” 

“Laurens has given you the rundown on our protocol for an aide’s duties?” George asked. 

“He has.” Alexander provided the simple answer. “I even have a list of your most important contacts.” 

That must have been what Alexander was reading when he had walked into his room. 

“Do you have any questions?” George asked, stepping forward again. 

“What of us?” 

It was a simple question that George had known was coming to conversation. It had nothing to do with the business of General to aide; it had to do with their relationship that had started since they first met among the troops in Trenton, that started with the kiss in the white house at the end of the road, that started with George stroking Alexander’s face once he had returned to him. 

“What would you like, Alexander?” He asked instead. “I have never asked that of you, yet.” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” The boy in front of him was now within an arm's length away; George could so easily reach forward and touch the body in front of him. “I trust  _ you.  _ I wish to stay with you. And if we win the war, I wish to be nowhere else than by your side.” 

George’s heart seemed to melt within his chest. Before thinking better of himself, he did end up reaching forward to grab Alexander and pull him close to his chest, hoping to merge their hearts together once and for all. 

For a moment, George forgot the world around him as Alexander wrapped his thin arms around his own waist. George had forgotten about the war, of the troops that he commanded, about King George III sitting on his throne an ocean away, commanding offensive troops, plotting the colonies downfall into oblivion. The only thing he cared about was the warmth that Alexander gave him in his chest. 

“Then stay.” George whispered into Alexander’s hair. 

They stood for many minutes, simply enjoying the feeling of holding the other, until they both had been comfortable with the other in their personal space. 

"I have a question." Was all Alexander said, still not letting go of George.

He nodded into the boy's hair, stroking it slightly with his right hand. He would need to provide one of his own ribbons ao the boy may be able to pull it back. Though, for the moment, it had felt exquisite. 

“Your brother,” Alexander suddenly broke the silence, pulling back from the embrace, flustering in the face. “May I ask what of him?” 

George paused, the wound still seemingly fresh from his older brother’s untimely death before he could have seen where George himself is now.  _ Oh, how proud he could have been of me. _

“He is my half brother. He died when I was twenty.” George sighed as he recalled the memory. “He was very influential ever since our father died, and he became a very important part of my life as I turned into a fine young man. Lawrence taught me everything I know on the topics of civility and being a proper man for the women around me.” 

Alexander hesitated before speaking.    
  
“I, too, have a brother out there, somewhere. I am not sure where the British took him. I have never spoken to him since we were children.” 

“I will not press, if you do not either.” 

Alexander nodded, and the conversation had ended, as abruptly as it had started. 

“Now,” George stepped back fully, taking in Alexander’s filthy form. “I will have a bath drawn up for you tonight, but for now, you may return to the other aides and continue to work with Laurens as he prepares you for the real workload that is to come.” 

“I cannot stay here with you?” Alexander asked, confused. “What of Reed?” 

“He is gone and taken care of.” George assured him. “ Please, do return to the other aides, before I give in to myself."

Alexander shot him a confused look. George felt his stomach coil at the thought of taking Alexander to his own bed while he had the free time.

"Before I take you right here, like a mare, Alexander." He made sure to smooth out his words as they rolled out of his lips.

Alexander’s entire face had gone red at the statement, before nodding, and brushing past George quickly. The statement had been worth it. 

And for a moment, George was happy. Alexander on his side was enough for the joyous feeling to bubble up in his throat to morph into a smile. 

For the next hour, George sat over his desk, back hunched over the papers that congress had sent him over the past week. 

By the end of the day, the General of the Continental Army had made his decision on what must be done. 

The army would move encampments. Alexander would follow him willingly this time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any ideas to continue?


	5. Act Three, Scene One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are safe during such anxious, desperate, and sad times. Feel free to use the comments to support one another. 
> 
> We finally got some of that E rating in this chapter! Who's hype? Also, this is the beginning of the Charles Lee arc, so boom, here comes THAT dimwit. Be prepared for some heavy drama. 
> 
> Now with finals done, I can actually commit to getting this done a little faster. I'm sorry for the wait guys!
> 
> Enjoy, and stay safe y'all.

_ Speak in tongues_

_I don't even recognize your face_

_Mirror on the wall_

_Tell me all the ways to stay away_

_ \- [Black Out Days, Phantogram](https://youtu.be/a0ul-BghOAs) _

* * *

_ May 30th, 1777 _

_ Middlebrook, near the Bridgewater Township, New Jersey _

* * *

He scanned his eyes among the lines and lines of shelves within the small corner store, reading the labels of all the different products that were laid out before him. The continental dollars within his breast pocket seemed to add extra pounds to his already small figure, George’s pocket watch also weighing the same amount. 

He took the watch out and glanced at the time. 

“John?” Alexander called out, and his friend turned to look at him. “We have around ten minutes before we need to heap ourselves back to camp.” 

“Has it been that long already?” John groaned, sticking a couple of eggs into his satchel. 

“It must have been.” Alexander reached up on his toes to grab some long wicked candles above him on the top shelf. Careful not to knock everything else down in the store, he cautiously took down four of the large bundles of wax and set them in his own satchel. 

It had been only two days since the army had migrated to an encampment near New Brunswick to keep an eye on the British. Middlebrook, as Alexander would later learn, seemed much brighter than the dreadful Morristown encampment only a month earlier where he had stayed for so long. He no longer slept in a tavern with the other aides; instead, he slept on the floor in George’s tent, which the other aides had joined him as well. 

It was very hard to stay asleep when George was sleeping only feet away from him, and even harder to stay put on the floor as the other aides snored around him.

It had been Tilghman’s idea to sleep in the same tent as the General; there had been a limited supply of tents since new members of the army had showed up, renewing all of their service years, causing a need for more supplies and shelter. 

Most of the aides worked within the working tent next to George's tent, where other secretaries gathered as well, such as Greene and Knox’s personal staff. Alexander hadn’t even so much as held the other man’s hand in recent times; the closest he had gotten was holding the General’s coat under his head as a pillow that had been gifted to him so long ago. 

Dare he say that he missed George’s lips.

Alexander’s eyes landed on what he had been looking for; vials of ink, at the end of the shelf, for his own use and for the use of other aides. He mentally sighed in satisfaction. 

“How many bottles of ink do we need for everyone?” He asked John, who had just begun to sort through the different bags of coffee that had been sacred among the different aides. 

“Hammie, how should I know?” He sarcastically retorted, causing Alexander to groan in frustration. He would grab ten, and if that was not enough, then the aides would have to come down to the general store themselves and request more. He slipped the bottles into his bag. 

As he was counting the materials needed in his head, his eyes noticed something glint in his peripheral vision. The gleaming bottle was smaller than the bottles of ink that weighed in his bag, and the price was reasonable for what the store had placed below the bundle of vials. It was sure to be more expensive in other places. 

Alexander leaned forward to reach the small bottle and examined the label. 

Distilled whale oil. Used for making types of vegetable oil and soaps. Can also be used as a lubricant for simple machines used in farm work. 

He slipped two of them into his bag along with the ink and feather quills. His stomach rolled at the thought of what its uses could be for practical reasons between him and George. 

“You ready?” Alexander turned to John, who was intently staring at a block of hard tea. 

“Sure.” John took his things to the store owner, and started to count out the notes in his pocket, Alexander doing the same. 

They paid the man (it was great trouble to find a store owner willing to take the continental note that they had received from George himself, out of his own pocket), and then they were off, to return back to the main encampment outside of the town. It had to be around a thirty minute walk, and it made Alexander’s feet sore within the confines of his new boots, which he had yet to get used to. 

“You got the ink and quills?” John asked as the general store door closed behind them. The town had just begun to wake up; men and women walked down the street, now clear of snow since the spring melt, and carriages rolled down the center of the street, the cold breaths of the horses dissolving into the air. It never failed Alexander to be so enamored with town life. 

“I did.” He offered simply. He decided not to open his bag for John to see; his friend would most likely ask what the oil would be used for. 

He had decided not to let John into that part of his life, just yet. It was still a crime to lay with another man, and Alexander had not wanted to have it well known of his preference in sexual partners. Though, the more time that he spent with John, the more likely he thought he would let the secret slip, and the thought terrified him. 

Alexander hadn’t even gotten a private conversation with George since they had arrived. Though it had only been two days, he missed those lips on his. Though it had been spring, he still longed for the warmth of the tavern as Alexander snuck out from the aide’s room to sleep with George until dawn. 

_ The war comes with sacrifices, _he mused in his head. 

As the pair of aides left the main street of the nearby town and started up the hill to the encampment, Alexander thought of the work that needed to be done once he had reached the work tent that had been hazardly put up beside George’s command tent. A bulk of the work included transcribing letters for the General’s personal use, such as record keeping, but George had recently learned of Alexander’s tongue for French, in which he had placed him in charge of translations if needed. 

He was sure there was a letter somewhere that had to be retranslated. John tended to be lacking in writing the language. Alexander had caught mistranslations many times by that point. 

The edges of camp started to become visible to him as his footsteps became faster with each stride. 

“Is it too late to run away from our responsibilities?” Alexander asked, sighing, desperately attempting to change John’s mind. 

Alexander had brought the subject up, before, soon after he had begun the work of an aide. It was stressful; to the extent that Alexander had nearly run away from the camp once they had settled. Transcribing letters, translating letters, copying George’s rough scrawl on the letter parchment had become something that Alexander had loathed to do. He had gotten used to George’s handwriting. He had loved the curve of his letters. It seemed to match the curve of his brow. 

“I am afraid not. I’m still trying to get on Washington’s good side so I can get my battalion in South Carolina.” 

_ Oh, right, John’s ultimate goal, _Alexander mentally slapped himself. He would have to stick around for a while in order to get that command. 

They reached the bridge of trees on top of the hill, where the borders of the encampment were. The sentries at their post nodded once to John, not giving a spare glance towards Alexander. 

They breached the trees, walking in step with one another as the edge of tents came into view. 

The soldiers were scattered among the tents, most wrapped in the new provisional blankets that had recently been provided by the town at the bottom of the hill. Many soldiers were smoking out of pipes to keep themselves somewhat warm in the cold. The snow had melted, being the end of May, but the air still felt stiff within Alexander’s lungs. 

He had just begun to recount the letters that needed transcribing when John suddenly ran forwards, nearly dropping his bag in the process. Alexander stood, shocked, as he watched John run closer to the center of camp, near a large fire that sent plumes of smoke up into the air. 

John nearly jumped into the air as he suddenly pulled a man, taller than him and without uniform, into his arms and nearly suffocating the other. Next to him, stood a taller man, who wore a uniform. He stuck his hand out to John, but was promptly ignored. Alexander furrowed his brow. _ Who were they? _

“Alexander!” John called after letting go of the other man. “Come over here, I want you to meet someone.” 

John yelling nearly across all of camp did nothing to cease the whispers among the ranks. Alexander had tried to ignore the other soldiers; the stares, the murmurs, the judgment. They had known that he switched sides, they thought of him as a spy, he knew that. The whispers would not stop anytime soon; that is what George had told him back in Morristown. 

Alexander trudged over to John, who wore the brightest smile he had ever seen, stretching the freckles across his face to the ringlets of hair framing his cheeks. It was a warm sight within the cold around him. 

“Alexander,” John excitedly pointed to the man in civilian clothes, “This is Hercules Mulligan, a Son of Liberty, and our best spy in New York City.” 

Alexander shook his hand. 

“You’re a spy?” He asked, the civilian clothes clicking in his mind. Hercules smiled, much like John had done moments before. 

“A tailor and proud of it.” He retreated, guestering downwards to the dark brown pants hugging his legs tightly. “That’s how I got these pants; made them myself.” 

“They look hot!” Alexander laughed. He observed the pants, grazing his eyes over the seams that looked perfectly sewn together. “What is the war like in New York?” 

“Bunch of ole’ redcoats storming into my shop, that’s what.” Hercules groaned. “They come in, actin’ like they own the place. Tread mud from outside all over the shop. You should see what it looks like when they’re drunk, the information they let loose is even sweeter, making the whole operation worth it. Slimy lobster-backs, they are. Annoying as hell to be nice to.” 

“Herc,” John nudged him from his side roughly. 

“What?” He asked, defensively. “You try running that shop and staying quiet while those bastards talk about the revolution like they are squashing bugs in a garden.” 

Hamilton let his smile fall. He used to be one of those bastards, back in Albany. He used to get drunk and talk about George as if he was the devil, or as Hercules said, more like an insect that needed to be taken care of swiftly. 

“Alexander used to be a British soldier,” The man beside Hercules in the uniform spoke up for the first time since Alexander had come over to the center of camp. “He recently switched sides after being kept in confinement under General Washington. 

“Oh, shit.” Hercules mumbled.

Alexander looked at the man. 

“Have we met?” He asks, instead, dumbfounded by the proclamation. 

“Aaron Burr.” He simply offered, holding his hand out once more. “I heard about you from all the way in Quebec.” 

“Aaron Burr, sir.” He hesitantly took Burr’s hand. His grip was too firm for his liking. 

“The one and only.”

“Quebec, huh.” Alexander deadpanned. He was not amused by the statement. 

“You are quite popular among the ranks. Word travels fast when Washington has a personal pet he kept in his tavern in Morristown, especially when he found out that his pet was stolen and he nearly lost his mind.” 

Alexander narrowed his eyes on Burr. 

“But what do I know? It is merely a rumor.” 

“What is it that you know?” It took all Alexander had to not snarl at the newcomer. “I may have been kidnapped by George’s hand, but I swear I have never felt more sure of this decision. I am committed to this now, whether I like it or not, and I am here to serve the cause. I am here to work alongside all of these soldiers, including _ you- _” 

“Talk, less.” Burr interrupted.

“_ What? _” 

“Smile more, Alexander.” Burr smirked, and started to turn away from the group before disappearing into the crowd of soldiers. 

“I’m sorry,” he turned to John and Hercules, attempting to reel in his hysterical laughter. “What the _ fuck _ was _ that _?” 

“Burr has always been that way.” John crossed his arms and bumped into Hercules’ side. “He tends to be cold and distant. That also seems to be a catchphrase of his. It is quite annoying.” 

“Right, you are.” Alexander rolled his eyes. “How long are you staying in camp?” 

Hercules seemed to hear the question, but his eyes seemed distant to Alexander. They were glossed over and he appeared to be thinking in his head. 

“Just meeting with Washington. I am having Cato watch the shop for me, so I must leave in a few days at most.” Hercules’ voice sounded distant as well. He was surely wondering about his transition to the Revolutionary side; Alexander had become used to it. 

“Then I wish you the warmest welcome here.” Alexander lifted up the bag. “If you will excuse me, I must give the supplies from the general store to Washington.”

“Oh!” John frantically held out his bag. “Can you take mine to him as well? I wish to show Hercules around before he meets with the General.”  
  
Alexander nodded and took the satchel from John, slinging it over his free shoulder. Hercules smiled at the both of them, but was hesitant to throw the glint in his eyes from John to Alexander’s direction. 

“I was, uh,” Hercules started, unsure of what he was about to say. “We were going to go visit the local tavern, tonight. Burr, John and I.” 

He paused, looking at the solid ground. 

“Would you like to accompany us?” 

Alexander hesitated. They were asking him to drink? Such as, what friends would ask of each other? Is that how he was to them, friends? 

“I would be happy to.” He found himself saying. One drink wouldn’t hurt. 

“I’ll come get you tonight, Alexander.” John nodded to him before steering Hercules away, talking in hushed whispers next to his ear. He was sure that John was explaining how he switched sides from Albany to Middlebrook, losing his redcoat jacket along the way. 

So he sighed, turned west, and made his way to the commanding tent where George surely must have been, once again hunched over his desk. 

Alexander smiled to himself as his steps became increasingly faster. The oil in the bag suddenly seemed to weigh tenfold within the leather satchel he carried on his shoulders. 

The command tent was closed, most likely wrapped with a ribbon to keep the cold air out, and the hot candlelight inside, providing what little warmth that they produced. It was surely not much. 

“General Washington, sir.” He called, waiting outside the flaps, waiting for the ribbon to be undone. 

It had become easier, with time to become strictly professional. It still made him cringe when he addressed him as general. Or when he had to publically take orders like the other men, but the glances over parchment or distant looks across camp makes Alexander’s heart flutter within his chest. It helped ease the anxiety of the war, but brought up the new anxiety of the nature of their relationship. 

He was worried of George getting bored of him, and tossing him aside, like some other soldier that had perished in battle. It terrified him. 

“Hamilton?” He heard George call out, voice muffled by the flaps in the tent. “Hold on a moment.” 

Alexander waited in silence, hearing shuffling on the other side of the tent. His stomach began to turn in on itself as his nerves seemed to rise only higher; he could feel his heartbeat against his neck in anticipation. 

_ Please let him be alone, please let him be alone, please let him be alone - _

George retracted the now untied flaps of the tent, and he glanced around Alexander to see if anyone had followed him. Before Alexander could open his mouth to address George properly, he was being grabbed by the buttons of his coat, being pulled into the tent harshly. 

“George, what-” 

The flaps to the tent shut abruptly, making an audible noise and nearly blew out the candles when a rush of cold air came into the small space. George was in Alexander’s personal space in the blink of an eye, pulling his face upwards to the makeshift ceiling before sealing his lips with the younger boy’s. 

Alexander sighed into the sudden kiss; it was warm against his lips, and truth be told, he had missed the General’s hands on him. 

Those hands were on his scalp now as they slowly moved their lips together in a recognizable pattern. Alexander may be new to the act of smothering his face along someone else’s, but the feeling of chapped, warm lips against his was no cause to complain. 

The hand on his scalp moved to the ribbon holding his hair back and slightly tugged, letting Alexander feel his hair sprawl out along his shoulders. George’s fingers slid through his hair slowly at first, getting a feel for the movement and letting Alexander adjust to the sensation. It had felt like a warm bath after a hard, cold day; the tension leaving his neck and relaxing into the sudden kiss. 

He felt George lick his bottom lip, asking permission; so Alexander opened his mouth only slightly before the larger man slowly slid his tongue into his own mouth, tasting the boiled coffee from earlier that morning before he had sent John and himself to the town. 

Alexander groaned into George’s mouth when the older man began to suck on his own tongue. It felt better than anything he had ever experienced. 

George’s hands gave a particularly hard tug at Alexander’s scalp, causing him to do three things; drop the satchels from his shoulders to the ground, forgotten, snap his head back so his neck was now fully exposed, and open his mouth in a breathy moan before stopping himself to prevent himself from being loud. 

“George.” He breathed, eyes still closed in a haze. 

“I have missed you, so terribly much, like this.” he whispered into Alexander’s ear, moving the hair out of the way so he could let his tongue run along the shell of it. “Do you know how hard it is to prevent myself from touching you, at night, in front of the other aides, as you all sleep on my floor?”  
  
Alexander felt his knees grow weaker by the second, all the blood rushing away from his head and to his cock, confined so tightly in his brand new breeches. He couldn’t ruin them, not when he is so _ close- _

George’s hands moved from his hair to his chest, feeling Alexander’s muscles getting stronger and more toned each passing day with the drills and work he completed with the other soldiers. The hands were warm, different from Alexander’s own. He could feel it through his continental blue jacket and white undershirt. 

He also had begun to move his lips along Alexander’s stubble on his jawline, moving to the expense of the neck that he had not bothered to hide now that George’s hands had moved to the rest of his body and away from his scalp. His lips grazed right over his pulse point, making his lips quiver in anticipation. 

“Are we doing this here?” He asked, breathless. The last thing that Alexander wanted was to be caught with the general of the army, weak in the knees, cock hard, as he gasped for breath when said general bit down on a sliver of skin exposed above his collarbone. 

“I have an idea in mind.” Was all George had said before his hand immediately grabbed Alexander’s thick cock in his hand through the breeches. “I have held myself back long enough, and the way you bend over your desk when writing those letters-” 

Alexander gained control of his hand and immediately bit the skin by his wrist so he couldn’t moan loud enough for the other soldiers to hear. 

“What do you have planned?” He surprised himself by asking. Alexander wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer to that question. 

“Give me a moment, Alexander.” George’s breath also seemed gone, replaced with a dark, gravely voice that made him seem much more hot than Alexander had expected. “Patience is a virtue.” 

“To hell with that.” He opened his eyes to look up at George. His eyes were blown wide with lust, almost as if he was consuming Alexander with his eyes. 

“As you wish.” He bowed his head slightly before letting Alexander go, reaching to his own trousers before jerking his head in the direction of his own. “Pull yourself out for me.” 

_ For me, for me, for me- _

He did not wait to be told twice. His fingers stumbled for a moment before regaining control and untying the first couple of laces, desperately trying to keep quiet as he pulled himself out into the air. Alexander felt immediate relief, for it was far too hot in his own trousers for it to be comfortable for very long. 

He could hear himself swallow as he glanced down to look at George’s own hand around his cock. 

George was a tall man. He towered over anyone he met, any of his soldiers. It was painstakingly obvious, even when on a horse, who the man in charge of the army was. His posture even helped that fact; always ramrod straight, stretching up to the sky. Alexander had thought, logically, that the man would als be taller in...other ways. 

Oh, how greatly he underestimated the man. 

George’s dick looked big even against those large hands holding himself, slowly stroking to get himself to full hardness. As he slowly pulled the foreskin back, it had seemed to enlarge even further, making Alexander’s mouth gape. He started to worry if he would begin to drool in front of George. 

“Is this,” George stroked once more, pumping quickly, “up to your standards, Alexander?” 

He swallowed again. 

“I am not sure I would ever have standards, after this.” He frankly said, stilling his hands against himself before he could spill early. “Even so, I have yet to see someone else, like this.” 

“Oh, Alexander,” George let out a breathy moan as he said his own name. “The honor is mine.” 

He shuddered as George stepped forward towards his own hunched frame. His hands no longer felt cold, and the air around them in the small tent suddenly became suffocating; Alexander was finding it hard to breathe. 

George leaned down, once again level with Alexander’s right ear. 

“Relax, Alexander.”  
  
It was a soft whisper that went straight to Alexander’s head. He obeyed the command anyway, holding himself in a softer grip than before. It took all he had to not stroke himself more. 

George’s hand that was not gripping his cock moved to the small of Alexander’s back, pulling their hips together slowly as he breathed heavily into his ear. 

“Sir-” Alexander gasped, involuntarily using the formal address to the general. George pulled him closer, impossibly still and too slow, until their hips were aligned. 

George thrusted forward, and Alexander was gone. 

He felt the burning heat of George’s prick roughly pressed against his own. It was only slightly bigger than his own, darker, and much more thicker than he could have ever imagined on his own. It caused him to jerk his hips upward, in a desperate attempt to gain more of that sweet feeling, but was quickly stopped when George moved both hands to his hips, stilling them. 

“Let us not rush this.” George nipped at Alexander’s ear. He groaned and reached upwards so that he could lace his fingers on the commander’s coat draping George’s frame. They were both still dressed. 

“Please.” He groaned, attempting to move his hips, even though they were being mounted still. 

“Did you buy what I asked you to find?” George asked. 

“I-” Alexander gasped, trying to form words. “I did. In the satchel that now lays on the ground.” 

George pulled away causing Alexander to whine. He reached down to the forgotten bags, rummaging through them until he found what he had asked Alexander to fetch in private. 

He heard the whale oil bottle pop open from the cork. Alexander shivered as he looked down at George spreading the oil along his cock. 

“Will this make it easier?” Alexander asked. 

“It will.” George moved in front of him again, grabbing them both together and pressing their cocks against one another. 

Alexander gasped, throwing his head back in pleasure. He tried his best not to scream, but he could surely not suppress the faint whine in his throat when George suddenly took his lips in his own, passionately kissing him. 

Nothing could have prepared him for when George started to move his large hand along both of their pricks, smearing the oil along their heats, causing Alexander to shudder in pleasure. 

“Oh my God,” He moaned, letting his head fall forward as if it were dead weight along George’s shoulder. The man was so much bigger than he was, in more ways than one; his stature, being able to let Alexander sag along his frame, his hands, so they could easily grip them both in their hands, and finally in his own prick size. Alexander could only imagine how that body of the general’s would feel on top of him. 

“Yes,” George found a rhythm to begin, rubbing both of them together at a slow pace that agonized Alexander. “This is what I have been waiting for.” 

“Really?” He was having a hard time breathing. 

“Oh, yes, Alexander.” George grunted, slowly pumping them together, causing him to roll his eyes to the back of his skull. “I have wanted this for quite some time.”  
  


He rutted upwards, desperate for more contact, but was punished by an intense squeeze to his cock. It hurt so blissfully good. 

“Please,” He moaned for what must have been for the millionth time. “Please.” 

“Please, what, Alexander?” George asked, trailing kisses along his hairline. 

“Let me cum,” Alexander breathed out, face lighting up bright red in shame. “Dammit.” 

He hid his head more into George’s shoulder as the strokes became faster and faster. He was sure not to last like this; not when the slick was making it so easy for George to quicken his pace. Those large hands seemed to glide against him in all the right places; places that Alexander never even knew existed on himself. He had never felt the tug of another man’s hand on his cock, but it was so much more exquisite rather than his own, deep in the night, when he chose to rub one out before sleeping. 

“Then let yourself go, Alexander.” George practically purred; his voice was far too low and raspy for it not to attract him even more inwards under the general’s spell. He was having trouble keeping up with the strokes, Alexander could tell, so he reached forward with a numb right hand and began to help George in stroking them together. 

His final undoing was when George tugged upwards, spinning his hand slightly left, causing a spiraling tug that Alexander had never done himself; and before he knew it, he was spiriting white, hot cum all over his hands. 

George followed soon after, pulling the same maneuver on himself as he also attempted to catch his own cum from getting all over their clothes. He grunted as he spilled into his hand.

And holy _ shit. _

Alexander gaped at the sheer amount of cum that had come out of the general; it coated his hands, even parts of his own wrist. Before he could think anything better of it, he dragged George’s hand up to his mouth, and began to _ lick, _cleaning up the mess that they had made of themselves. 

“Oh, _ Alexander. _” George groaned, eyes blown wide with lust and euphoria from the sin they just committed. 

“Sir.” He said, seductively as he could, looking up at the general with wide eyes. 

The moment seemed to stretch. It was quite a weird feeling, one that he could never describe with words. His head was clouded with a post-orgasm haze, clouding his judgment, before he leaned upwards and kissing George on the lips. 

Instead of pulling away, like he had expected the general to do at first, he pulled Alexander closer to his chest with his clean hand. 

They kissed. And it had felt better than anything Alexander could have imagined on his own. 

-

“Alex.” 

He looked up from his work to see John standing there, in the flaps of the open work tent, sticking his head in. His ribbon in his hair was out, much like Alexander’s own, which he had not bothered to put back up after he left George’s tent in haste. 

“Break from your work. Mulligan wants to go to the bar tonight.” 

Alexander had completely forgotten that he had agreed to go to the local tavern that night with Hercules and John. 

Well, it wasn’t exactly his fault. The whole George fiasco left him dazed, and when he had attempted to finish his work for the day, his mind kept drifting to those strong hands along his dick and those full lips kissing him breathless. 

It was quite distracting to his work. 

“Let me finish this paragraph so I know where I am when I get back-” 

“Alex.” John plainly said again. “Hercules wants to know your story.” 

“My story?” Alexander continued to write down the letter in front of him. “There isn’t much to tell, he seems to have made up his mind.” 

John entered the tent fully, closing the flaps behind him and walking up to Alexander’s makeshift desk. He began to reach forward, aiming to take the quill from his hand, but the younger of the two snatched his hand away. 

“He wishes to apologize.” 

“There is nothing to be sorry for.” Alexander spit up at John, facing him directly and looking away from the document he had been transcribing. “I used to be one of them, but I am no longer; I am not offended by his words, merely shocked, is all.” 

John frowned. 

“Did you never talk that way of us, before coming here?” He asked. “Did you speak only in the highest light of the Continental Army? Did you not speak of us at all?”  
  
Alexander sighed and set the quill down in the holder, deciding against continuing the work. It would wait; the conversation at hand was far more important. 

“No, I did not speak in the highest light of these men around me.” He paused. “Nor did I keep these thoughts to myself in imprisonment.” 

“Then, please,” John pushed the documents aside, now sitting halfway on the desk. “Let him apologize. Let Hercules hear your side of the conflict.” 

“Sides do not matter, in this war. They are both objectively right in their own ways.” 

John didn’t reply; he must not want to start an argument now, just the two of them, in the small tent. 

He liked John. He was a warm ray of light within the cold, demanding work of being an aide. He helped Alexander get settled within being fully incorporated in the ranks. He had stood at his side, watching his penmanship as he slowly but correctly transcribed letters, orders, and translations. He double checked every single letter that went to George in case of mistakes. John was like a safety net, if Alexander were to fall, which he was sure would happen one day. 

But today was not that day. Today, he had a hope to make people understand his side. It was an opportunity to come clean with his conflicted thoughts. 

It frightened him; the judgement. 

“Let us be off, then.” 

John let free one of his signature smiles, hopping off the desk and moving to his own desk to grab some coins from the bottom drawer. He sat next to Alexander, per George’s orders. 

“First round of ale is on me, how does that sound?” He asked, counting the coins. “I have enough for plenty more, however, I think we can squeeze a few out of Hercules before he suspects we can afford it.” 

Alexander agreed, and they left the tent, his quill drying the ink that laid within the calamus that had been so carefully carved out from his own hand. His first quill; not store bought. 

Hercules was already waiting outside of the tent for them; Alexander assumed he had first arrived with John but was requested to stay behind so that the man in the army could talk to him inside of the tent. 

“Ready.” John simply nodded to Hercules, and the trio were now on their way through camp. 

There were less soldiers out than that morning when ALexander and John had returned from the general store. The sun was low on the horizon, so close to breaching the trees in the distance, casting long shadows among the tents of camp. Fires were beginning to spring up in front of tents, one or two men tending to them, preparing for the cold night, even in the month of May. 

“How long until we can stop requesting firewood, or chopping down dry trees?” Alexander turned to John in the middle of the trio. 

“Until the soldiers feel no need to be kept warm at night by the fire.” He replied plainly. 

A pregnant silence fell among them. Alexander had tried to start a conversation, but they seemed quiet. He was sure that the other two men were talking about him before appearing to drag him to the tavern. 

The walk to town seemed even longer than usual. It was unsettling. 

They did make it to the tavern in one piece, so it seemed to be a success in Alexander’s mind. 

The three men walk into the tavern, which was beginning to bustle with people walking left and right. It startled Alexander at first; he had not been in such close quarters with so many men in one place since his time under the British Crown, sleeping in barracks meant for three or four men, but were packed to the brim with twelve people at most. 

There were more men here, however. 

Drunk townspeople halsted the server woman, trying her best to get to everyone their stew or tankards of cheap ale. The man at the bar was washing bowls and filling up wooden cups, serving it to the men at the bar. Alexander could recognize some of the people within the tavern; some of the soldiers from camp no doubt. Their blue coats were shredded and tossed over their chairs haphazardly. 

“Seems to be a busy night, right boys?” John smiled with pride and walked to the nearest cleared table where men were beginning to get up from their seats. They managed to get there first before another group of men from camp filed in behind them. 

As Alexander began to remove his coat from his shoulders, the server woman came bustling over to them, flushed from her work. 

“Stew or ale?” She asked in her nicest voice. 

“Ale, an entire round, please.” John asked politely. “Take your time, dear. We are in no rush.” 

She smiled and walked back to the bar. 

They settled into their seats, the silence from earlier still in the air around them, seemingly louder than the drunk men around them singing drinking songs and drowning themselves in drink. Hercules was the first to talk. 

“Alexander, I must apologize for my behavior earlier this morning.” He began. “I had no inkling that you were a part of the opposition, and that your ideals must have changed. Any help to the army is greatly appreciated.” 

“I assure you, it is no trouble.” Alexander leaned more into the table, attempting to make his voice heard in all the commotion. “John tells me that you wish to hear my perspective.”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Alexander feigned a smile. “I was taken on a British trading ship when I was twelve. I mostly clerked for the ship’s captain; keeping track of shipments and money. When the war broke out, I managed to escape his hands and enlist in the British army when the war broke out. I was a foot soldier stationed in Albany when I was given orders from my commander, who had received word from Howe to give a message to Rall, the Hessian commander in Trenton.” 

Their drinks came, causing Alexander to pause as the three of them took their first sip of the ale. It tasted bitter along Alexander’s tongue; it made him think of the sweet wine he had tasted from Mount Vernon with George that felt so long ago. 

“I was unfortunate enough to become Washington’s prisoner when he had stormed Trenton the night I arrived. Now I am here.” 

Hercules raised an eyebrow. 

“What of what Burr had mentioned, that you were stolen?” 

“What did I mention?”  
  
Alexander suppressed the urge to groan as he heard the voice of Aaron Burr come close to them, stealing a chair from nearby and sitting in it right up against the table. 

“It seems I have missed the first round. Next one on me?” He asked, and Hercules could only nod in surrender. John stole a look at Alexander, looking apprehensive. 

“I was taken by officer Joseph Reed, when he feared I was a threat to the General and that I was influencing too many changes in the army. I had suggested that Congress send a representative to the Morristown encampment so that they may send appropriate provisions to the forces.” 

“That was you?” John asked. 

“It was.” 

“He may have had a point.” Burr interjected, ruining the mood quickly. 

Alexander whipped his head to Burr. How could he say such a thing? 

“Excuse me?”  
  
“You heard me, I know you did, Alexander.” Burr just didn’t seem to shut up. “I do not speak soft spoken as you may think.” 

“What do you believe? That Reed might have been right to remove Alexander from camp?” John asked slowly, throwing a knowing glance to Alexander’s direction. He was attempting to set a trap, and Alexander was worried that it may even work. 

Burr, however, was not that naive. 

“I am merely pointing out that a previous British redcoat, being so close to the general and influencing the army’s actions, would be seen as a threat on the best of terms. Reed might have felt as if he was in the right.” 

“I, too, also thought I was in the right when under British rule, Burr.” Alexander snapped. “Do you think I was right to fight on the opposition?” 

Alexander couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The transition between armies had gone too fast for him to comprehend to the fullest, and now he was sounding like a full fledged soldier. 

And surprisingly enough, for the first time, Alexander wasn’t terrified of it. The only thing he seems to fear is losing George to the fight. 

“Point of view sure is interesting, huh, guys?” Hercules awkwardly laughed, trying to steer the conversation. “Next round on Burr?” 

He could only nod before receding back into his chair. Burr sighed in defeat, not wanting to continue the argument. 

When the next round did come along, they all finished their tankards and waited for the serving woman to pour more ale into them. Burr fished in his pockets for the required amount, before John stood up from his seat, lifting the new filled tankard.

“Raise a glass,” He smiled wide, lifting up the wooden cup into the air. “To freedom.” 

Alexander felt his heart warm. Raised his arm. Looked at John smiling down at him. 

_ To freedom, _ he thought, _ and to George. _

-

Meanwhile, back at the camp, George sagged into his chair, watching his officers argue on the British movements. 

Greene and Knox were the only one in his personal quarters tent. Greene, the passionate man that he was, continued to pace back and forth in front of the work desk that George was sitting in. Knox was also sitting, his heavyweight making the chair creak whenever he moved. Few candles were lit. 

“I assure you, the cannons will last until we make the move to chase after the British in the summer campaign-” Greene was cut off quickly. 

“You _ assure _me? Are you the new artillery officer? Did Washington remove me from my post without my knowledge?” Knox was mocking Greene now. “I know my ammunition as I know my prayers, those cannons cannot last another week without the staff to continuously clean them from the fresh snow melt.” 

“So find the staff!” 

“Oh, you expect me to just, what, find poor dough boys to clean them from the township? Or pull them right out of my ass?” Knox snapped. 

George, meanwhile, was focused on picking on a crack in the wooden desk, unable to concentrate on the conversation. 

Instead, his mind drifted to the events earlier in the day, thinking of Alexander. 

The way that boy kissed made his knees weak beneath the table. George had felt unpresidented bliss in those moments, kissing Alexander breathless, grabbing his hair and trailing kisses along his neck. The way that his stomach coiled in anticipation when he had first touched his boy’s prick. It felt hot and heavy in his own large hands; he couldn’t wait to one day feel Alexander’s cock in his mouth. 

“George!” Greene cut through his thoughts. Looking up, the General saw that his fellow military officer was shrugging his shoulders over at Knox, eyes wide in annoyance. 

“Forgive me,” George ran his hand along the desk and slapped the wood lightly to get his attention back to the men in front of him. “What seems to be the issue?” 

“Knox thinks the cannons won’t last until the next campaign.” 

“Because they _ won’t, _idiot.” Knox murmured. Greene was sure to hear such a remark. 

“Men, please, calm down?” George tried first. “Knox, what do you need?”  
  
“More men to clean the cannons.” It was a direct statement. Greene seemed to roll his eyes out of the corner of George’s vision. 

“I cannot give you those men.” 

“_ What? _” 

“Henry, please.” George sighed and looked to Greene, who shared a look of empathy. “I cannot just give you more men under your command. Ask around, perhaps look at the men unable to fight, or who request reassignment. I can do no more.” 

“This is horse shit.” He mumbled. He began to stand, an event to witness in itself; Knox barely had the stamina to mount a horse, let alone stand from a chair, legs wobbling from his massive weight.

“What else do you expect him to do?” Greene stepped in to defend George; he had always seemed to do so. “You know our status in this war, you know we are drowning.” 

“Oh, the new artillery officer speaks!” Knox snapped and began to walk towards the exit. “Please, refrain from talking about my resignation after I leave to do my _ own _work.” 

And with that, the man in charge of the rusting cannons left George’s tent, leaving Greene and himself witnessing his behaviour with shock. 

“You will fix that, won’t you?” George asks as he rests his head on his palm. “I cannot win the war with infighting.” 

“I will try my best, George.” The change in address made the General look up from the desk. “We seem to have some extra soldiers among the ranks.” 

George raised an eyebrow as Greene now started to sit in the chair that had been previously holding Henry Knox’s weight. It did not creak this time when his other officer sat down. 

“Some strey soldiers from Quebec. Searching for reassignment. Would you like me to send them your way tomorrow morning when the day breaks?” 

“Please do.” He paused. “Any names I should be aware of?” 

“Aaron Burr seems to be the highest ranking among the group. Shall he come in first?”  
  
“Hm.” George nodded in agreement. Greene handed over a piece of folded paper, which he accepted and began to read. 

_ Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Burr. Born on the 6th of February, 1756. Joined the military ranks as aide-de-camp to _ _ General _ _ Richard Montgomery on an expedition to Quebec, along with Benedict Arnold. Montgomery soon perished by bullet to the neck. _

“Did he come to be on my staff?” George asked, eyes still scanning the record. 

“It states he was a previous aide-de-camp, so it is quite possible. Hunting after Alexander.”  
  
“Alexander?” George dropped the parchment he was holding on to the cracked desk, suddenly alert to the situation. 

“Yes, George, Alexander.” Greene stated the name as if it had been obvious. “Burr has been part of this army since before it would even be considered an armed force to protect the country. Somehow, Alexander Hamilton, of all men, becomes your personal secretary within two months of meeting you. Burr perhaps believes that he can do better.” 

“Nathanael, you know-”

“Yes.” Greene cut him off, causing George’s eyes to widen. “I know. I am well aware of his abilities to come up with ways to help us, and his furious work ethic. I know. Knox knows. Hell, all of your staff knows; John Laurens has taken Alexander under his wing and helped him grow into a fine, young aide. Are you aware who doesn’t know?” 

“Aaron Burr.” George muttered. 

“Yes, Aaron Burr.” Grene continued his speech. “Aaron Burr. Congress. John Adams. None of them know the raw talent that the boy has. Hell, even Howe doesn’t know the amount of power that boy can one day hold.” 

“And that makes him my weakness.” George sighed and straightened his posture. Alexander was greater than he was, in strength, in youth, in wisdom, in courage. He was the hope this country needed, and George was willing to do whatever it took to give Alexander that opportunity. 

But he couldn’t lose Alexander yet. He will keep him behind the line, for as long as his power would allow him to. 

“If the British find him again-” Greene abruptly cut himself off, seemingly afraid to continue the conversation. Or perhaps he was afraid of George, of what he might do or say. It scared himself sometimes. 

A sudden image of Reed pinned against the wall back in Morristown resurfaced in his mind. Now, _ that _had been surprising to George. 

“If they manage to find him again, then they will witness my _ personal _hellfire that I could ever unleash among the British forces.” George gritted his teeth so he could force himself to stop talking. He feared if he continued, that his rage and anger would only boil, and would need to be taken care of in the form of violence. 

“You have grown rather irritated, since Alexander has come blessed in your life.” Greene sets his elbows on the desk casually. 

George snorted. “Blessed? I would say the opposite. He has already been taken from my hands once, I am afraid that I will not handle a second, God forbid.” 

“Then pray.” 

George paused, not willing to look up at Greene sitting across from him. _ Pray? _He thought, almost laughing at the prospect. 

“I am afraid His guidance is no longer on my side.” He sighed, glancing over to the crate that held his belongings, including his Holy Bible. “He has given me no hope in this war, He deprives my soldiers of basic living needs, He has witnessed me commit sin with Alexander. God’s grace is not so quick to forgive, and I am afraid that I will no longer be able to resist Alexander until He does.”

“George,” Nathanael gives a laugh. “You are forgetting an important detail.” 

George looks up to see his officer smiling softly. 

“At His grace, he has led Alexander to you.” 

Greene held magnitude with his word, and many more seemed to flow through the silence, unsaid. George had known of his Quaker background; they accepted all forms of life under the guiding eye of God. Nathanael Greene had been a firm believer in his stances on religion within the colonies; and George expected nothing less than acceptance from the man. 

“That, he has.” George smiled to himself as well. 

Though, the Serpent had led Adam and Eve to the apple, poisoning them with knowledge. 

Perhaps, Alexander was his apple. Inevitable to his demise. 

-

After multiple drinks, Alexander decides that he might tolerate Burr. 

A two or three after those, when the room began to become fuzzy at the edges and the drinking songs of the men around them became slightly more mute, Alexander changed his mind, and decides that he can’t stand Burr. 

_ I fucking hate Burr. _ He tells himself in his mind, drinking the rest of the ale in his tankard, not paying attention to the words that Hercules and John were saying to each other. _ I fucking hate his silence. I hate his stupid face. I hate the way that- _

“Right, Alex?” 

The room seemed to stop fuzzing around the edges and became more clear as Alexander suddenly brought himself back to the conversation at hand. The conversation that he had no mind to pay attention to only moments before because he was staring at Burr. 

Alexander tried his best to form words, but his silence must have sent the appropriate message, for John and Hercules gave a knowing glance to each other before fishing money out of their pockets to place on the table. Burr continued to sit, sipping slowly on his ale. 

“It seems we must call it a night here, good men.” John stood, Hercules and Burr doing the same. 

He tried his best to move; he really did. When ALexander stood, all the blood from his brain seemed to rush out at lightning speed, causing his body to sway sharply to the left, in John’s direction. He managed to catch himself before his fellow aide needed to step in and catch him. 

“When was the last time you drank, Alex?” Burr asked, standing gracefully, as if the alcohol did not even affect him in his actions. 

He resisted to say the wine that George had given him from Mount Vernon. 

“Not since my station in Albany. The last time I had drank even this much must have been longer.” His voice surprised himself; it sounded smooth and even. It was only his mind that was fogged, not his body. 

The four of them weaved through the patrons that had been lingering within the tavern, waiting for a new table to be available. Alexander could have sworn that he heard a fist collide with an unfortunate face and shouting before he was moved outside of the wooden doors into the chill, spring air. 

The sun had long since set, the town of the Bridgewater Township now covered in a comforting dusk. The stars were beginning to peak out behind some of the evening clouds, and the moon was half full, providing some light to the town below that the candles from within the houses could not reach. 

John and Hercules began to walk towards the direction of the camp, engaged in conversation with hushed whispers and moving hands. Burr follows them, seemingly like an afterthought, attempting to introduce new topics of conversation but was promptly ignored by the other two men who led the pace. 

Alexander couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the stars. 

It reminded him, as a teenager, of the stars he used to memorize on maps and charts. Those dreams of seeing all kinds of constellations had become a reality when he was stationed on that damned ship. It might have been his only pastime that Alexander tolerated. 

His feet seemed to drag along the ground as he followed the three men in front of him. The alcohol must have taken its intended effect on his motor skills. 

They made their way through the township; past the general store that Alexander had visited that morning, past the darkened tailor, and finally, past some residential brick houses that lined the end of the township. 

Alexander felt his warm breath huff out into the cold as he trudged up the base of the hill. It felt longer than normal. 

When they reached the edges of camp, Burr was the first to leave. 

“I bid you a night, gentlemen.” 

John turned back to Alexander, giving him a blank look. He could only shrug in reply. 

“What is _ with _that man?” Hercules watched Burr skulk off, obviously upset from being excluded from previous conversations. 

“He liked to be loved.” Alexander giggled, actually _ giggled, _causing John and Hercules to laugh. 

“You, my friend,” John stepped forward and began to lead Alexander to the aides tent. “Have had too much to drink this fine night.” 

“You had just as much as I!” 

“And yet, I am not laughing about Burr.” John walked at Alexander’s own pace, trying to be sure not to bustle about too fast for him to handle. 

Hercules left them after walking midway through camp. Most of the soldiers were in their tents by this time, attempting sleep. Some fires kindled out, while some men were still awake by them, tending to the flames and giving little light to the pathway back to the end of camp where George was sleeping.

“Most of the aides are most likely asleep.” He remarked, still following John and attempting not to wake up the soldiers camped around them in the nearly parchment thin tents. “We will have to sneak ourselves in!” 

“You are far too happy to do so, Alex.” 

They reached George’s tent, where Alexander began to feel his heart speed up within his chest; just enough to hear his own beating muscle within his ears. 

John lifted the tent flaps, letting Alexander slip in first, tapping his shoulder and a motion towards the floor where the other aides were peacefully laid across the ground upon blankets and coats. 

Alexander’s spot was by George’s bed. He eyed his target in the excruciating dim light, and began to move as slowly as he could without tripping and stumbling over an unfortunate head or arm. 

The space by George’s cot was empty, and Alexander let his eyes drift upward to his Genera;’s sleeping form. 

George had looked younger when he had slept. The effects of the war seemed to have not taken a toll on his face, or his powdered hair, or his seemingly permanent frown that he wore when touring camp. Alexander felt disappointment in his eyes when he raked over the troops each morning. 

Reaching his spot, he laid down on the solid ground of the tent, glancing at John to make sure he had reached his spot on the other side of the large space. He was beginning to crouch before he waved slightly at Alexander, and rested his body amongst the ground in a bundle of blankets from the side. 

Once he had rested, Alexander slowly stretched his arm under the bed, feeling for his goal. 

The general issued coat that George had given him back in Morristown, still perfectly blue and white, with gold trim and buttons. 

It had been a whole other battle to smuggle it around without anyone else noticing. George had suggested to keep it in his own belongings, so that he may keep it within his quarters. It had worked well when transitioning encampments, but when they had all finally settled two days ago, Alexander had begun to miss the coat. 

He hit it behind a crate under the bed, and claimed the spot nearest to the General so that he may reach it. The other aides had warned him of the horse-like snoring that George might let slip free during the night, and he assured them that he would pay them no mind. He had grown up on a merchant ship, after all. 

The coat felt heavy in his hands; still flawlessly folded as if it had just been taken out of the crate. Alexander smiled to himself as he placed it under his head, and finally rested, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. 

The other aides were sure to be asleep. Alexander had spent a great deal at the tavern, and even John admitted after a couple of drinks that he would immediately sleep once he hit the ground. 

But sleep never came to him. Sleep was hard to find on the cold ground, and his mind was filled with images from earlier that day; George kissing him, licking into his mouth, grinding his hard prick into his own. 

He sighed quietly; a breathless attempt to recreate the image in his mind. 

-

He awoke to a calloused hand ghosting a touch along his cheek. 

_ When had I fallen asleep? _

Alexander opened his eyes slowly, expecting John or Tilghman to be doing such an action, but was instead greeted by George, leaning half over the side of the cot and looking down at him. It was still very much dark within the confines of the tent; he hadn’t been asleep for long. 

He twisted his brow in confusion, to which George guided his thumb along his forehead, applying slight pressure. 

George moved his hand lower, to the expense of Alexander’s neck, causing him to shudder at the feeling. He reached up to place his hand over the General’s, now settling his fingers on to Alexander’s pulse. 

For a moment, they just looked at each other, in the midst of the sleeping aides around them. Most of them had gentle snores, or did not make a sound at all, and it failed to ruin the seemingly silent gaze from George. 

Alexander felt his own hands clasp around George’s, no longer just holding the General’s hand against his neck. Their fingers intertwined, and he could feel his heavy gaze grace Alexander’s throat. 

For an instant, Alexander had thought that George would open his hand further and press down on his own throat to cut off the air to his head. He had liked that, back in Morristown, though Alexander couldn’t place why. 

He had resented the power that George held over him at times. His General, ordering him around, making demands often. It had irritated him immensely, and Alexander had no choice but to listen and bite his tongue. When he was alone with George, however, Alexander had felt compelled to let the General do anything to him, such as earlier that day. He had complied to his every demand, in that moment. 

Never had Alexander thought that he would miss those large hands on his throat again; but here he was, George feeling his pulse and watching him sleep in the dark of the night. 

Instead, Alexander took George’s hand to his lips, and kissed the inner side of his wrist, still looking into the eyes of the man above him. It was a soft kiss, one that could only express one emotion. 

Love. 

Alexander had never considered feeling the emotion of love. He had assumed his mother had at least loved his father; in the worst of circumstances, at least twice, for him and his brother were born. From a young age, when his father had left and he had no one to look up to, Alexander had thought he had known love in terms of his family; he remembered his mother’s pale face as she was sick, and it hurt him deeper than anything else he had felt in his life, up to the moment. He thought he could love his brother, but after he was separated from Alexander to a different merchant ship, he had lost memory of his brother, and had given up on that feeling. 

But with George, Alexander had felt something different. 

He knew he cared for the General; he wouldn’t have switched tides of the war if he did not care for him. Those nights, spent with Oliver Taylor while being held captive, he had gone over the kiss with George seemingly on a loop within his consciousness. It had felt good, and when he had returned, he had vowed to himself that he would never leave George’s side as long as he had the strength to do so otherwise. 

He had forgotten himself in the feeling. He had forgotten about the British, even if it was for a moment. George was able to make him forget. 

Alexander was sure he loved the man. 

As his lips left George’s wrist, the General leaned off the cot further, slowly moving the top half of his body down closer to the boy laying on the floor. Alexander held his breath, trying not to make a sound in case the flimsy cot happened to make a sound that would wake the other aides. 

George was right in front of Alexander’s face now, one arm still on the side of his face, the other supporting his hanging weight off of the cot. He leaned down, and pressed his cold lips to Alexander’s own. 

It was chaste, quick. Enough for Alexander to remember what he was truly fighting for. 

In that moment, he knew three things. 

The first, being one of his allegiance. He could never return to the British ranks. He was wanted here, _ needed _here, put to much more use here than he had in Albany, looking over shipping stores and drinking with men who did not understand him. 

The second, being one of his ideals. He may never grow to truly understand the Revolutionary cause. Common Sense had been a ruse, propaganda campaign; George had been a British soldier before the war; he himself had been on a merchant ship. He had finally accepted that he, himself, might change one day. 

The third, being one of George himself. He could pinpoint the feeling that he had been questioning. 

It was not care, no; it was one of love. 

George pulled away far too quickly for Alexander to process. He seemed to lean down further, tucking back a piece of stray hair from Alexander's face and tucking it behind his ear. He then grazed his lips across the shell of it, kissing the top. 

“Sleep well, Alexander.” 

Almost as if his mind knew he was given an order, he let his eyes shut immediately. 

The last thing he remembered was George’s hand grazing his cheek once more before sleep overtook him. 

His dreams were filled with darkness. 

-

George was reading the morning report from Knox when he heard footsteps in front of his tent. They were too firm to have been Alexander’s. 

_ Where was he? _George thought. He had called for Alexander almost half ago. 

“Your Excellency, sir.” 

A new voice floated inside the tent from the closed flaps. George furrowed his brow, but set the parchment down on his desk that he sat, looking at the tent flaps. 

“You may enter.” 

The flaps to the tent opened to reveal a soldier in uniform; one that George had not seen before yet here at the camp. He hadn’t had the chance to tour the camp this morning; so the soldier now standing in front of him must be that of which Greene was talking of yesterday evening. The new soldiers requesting reassignment. 

“Forgive me for my rudeness,” George stood and held out his hand to the man, who grasped it accordingly. “Who are you?” 

“Aaron Burr, Sir.” He dropped his hand from Burr, who seemed uncomfortable to be in the situation. “Permission to state my case?” 

“As you were.” George maneuvered himself to sit at his desk once again, and gestures for Burr to sit at the desk in front of him. The soldier doesn’t move. 

“Sir, I was a captain under General Montgomery until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec, and well, in summary-” 

“I know how you got here.” 

This seemed to stun Aaron Burr, for after being interrupted, his mouth quickly snapped shut. His hands were in the middle of talking, out in the open air, seemingly frozen in place. Burr must have not expected to be cut off immediately after speaking. 

“In summary,” He continued, though slower and more cautioned. “I think that I could be of some assistance.” 

“And why would that be?”  
  
“I admire how you keep firing at the British, from a distance.” 

George scoffed. Is this what men thought he was doing in his weak hours of the winter?

“I have some questions, a couple of suggestions, how to fight instead of fleeing west-”  
  
“Yes?” George asked, attempting to get Burr to just _ speak his mind. _He had no time for dancing around the subject matter. 

Aaron Burr stopped talking. 

“Mr. Burr,” George pulled out the paper that had all of the soldier’s credentials and his background on it; the one that Greene had given to him yesterday. “I appreciate your sentiment, though I am afraid that I have no more room on the docket for more staff personnel-” 

“Your Excellency? You wanted to see me?” 

George’s heart seemed to stop in his chest as he heard his boy’s voice through the tent flaps. Alexander was here, he would save him from this horrid conversation that was unnecessary, he didn’t need _ advice _on his military tactics that weren’t coming from Alexander’s beautiful mouth-

“Hamilton, come in.” George stated, turning away from Burr and mustering as much professionalism as he could to keep his feelings in check. 

Alexander opened the flaps with grace and stepped in, quickly shutting the cloth behind him so the merger warmth within the tent couldn’t escape outside. His hair was tied back with a simple blue ribbon, and his coat seemed to be cleaner than yesterday afternoon when he had come back with Laurens. 

“Have you met Burr?” he held up his hand, gesturing to the soldier in their midst. 

“Yes sir-”

“We keep meeting.” They both said at the same time. 

An uncomfortable silence followed them speaking. So, they have met. George would have to ask about the situation later. 

“As I was saying, sir,” Burr extends out his hand for a final time. “I took forward to seeing your strategy playing out.” 

George looked to the extended hand as he walked back to his desk, not paying mind. Burr visibly seemed to stiffen as Alexander proceeded forward to sit in the chair across from the desk. 

“Burr?” 

“Sir?” The soldier had hope in his voice as he shifted back in the direction of the desk. 

“Close the door on your way out.” 

Aaron Burr promptly left the tent, making no effort to hide his sulking. George was not worried; he had no use for the man, and he would reassign him under Greene, leading his own command somewhere on the front lines once the summer campaign picked up once again, away from Middlebrook. 

“Door, sir?” Alexander asked. “There is no door.”  
  
“I must have slipped my tongue.” Was all George offered in reply. His mind was jumbled, in Alexander’s presence. He had tried to make no effort to hide in doing so. It would be his downfall, he was sure of that fact. 

“Why did you call me to meet with you?” He asked, slouching in the chair. “I am in the middle of a letter to John Laurens’ father over in Congress of the plans for the summer campaign, and I would hate to disrupt my work ethic-”  
  
“Alexander.” George interrupted. “I wish to talk with you. I have hardly any time to see you these days, if yesterday morning was any indication.”

“Speaking of yesterday, do you make it a habit to watch me sleep?”

Somehow, George knew the topic would come up. Back in Morristown, when he had read Common Sense to the boy every night, he seemed much more relaxed in slumber than he was awake. It was entrancing to watch his even breathing. Now, more so than ever, George would have been afraid if he had lost Alexander during the night, as he was last time. 

So he may have taken up the activity of watching Alexander sleep. 

He had at first been worried about the aides sleeping on the floor of his quarters. He had thought that Alexander would make a move on George, in front of the other aides, or while they were all asleep. He kept a close eye on him when he was asleep, to see any indication of fault in composure, but none came. 

Instead, it was George who broke composure first, Alexander’s irresistible face in slumber as he dragged his hand along the soft cheek. 

“I am afraid I will lose you again.” he confided. “When I lost you, it was because I took my eyes away from you, and I had not bothered to check on you for two weeks afterword; that was my choice.” 

“I am not leaving you again.” Alexander sounded so sure in his statement. 

“There is no guarantee.” George continued. “I sometimes wonder if you are even real; as if I will wake one day and your very existence will be gone, as if smoke from a fire.” 

Alexander leaned forward and reached for George’s hand. 

“I am real, and though it may take some getting used to, I do not wish to leave.” 

His eyes seemed to gleam within the tent, lighting up the space far more than any candle could do on it’s own. George felt his heart warm. 

“I hope that you don’t wish to. I know it is hard to get used to your situation.” 

“As I have said before, and will say again,” Alexander tightened his grip on George’s hand. “I care for you, and I will support you as much as I am able to.” 

“And what if I decide to one day take you away from your work indefinitely?” George smiled. 

“You are pushing it.” 

They shared a moment of peace, and George continued to hold Alexander’s hand, softly rubbing his thumb against his wrist. 

“If we lose this war, you know the punishment.” George pointed out. He thinks of the horrid dream he had when Alexander had finally returned to him. The boy’s head on a pike, organs burning in a fire, his body mutilated and cut open in a hollow shell on the ground. 

“I know.” 

“You are risking yourself, despite that future.” George looked to their conjoined hands. “It is very admirable.” 

“I wish to rise above my station, after the war.” Alexander sighed. 

“Your goal?”  
  
“Give me a command.” 

George’s heart seemed to stop within his chest. 

He had just gotten Alexander somewhere he could keep watch over the boy. He was without harm, behind the lines and transcribing letters. He was smart, his mind was being put to good use; why had he requested a command? The last thing George needed was to worry about Alexander along the lines, fighting the enemy which he had once endorsed. He could easily parish. 

_ I need you alive, _popped into his head once again. 

“Alexander, you are well aware that ethically I cannot do that.” 

“What do you mean?” Alexander suddenly seemed to sprout much needed energy to get his point across, withdrawing his hand. “You are the General of this army, _ you _are in command of my post, why can you not change it so?” 

His hand felt cold where Alexander had held it moments before. 

“You had just recently been turned to our side, I cannot have you command a battalion until you have proven you can _ stay put. _” George emphasized the last sentence, making sure that the boy in front of him knew the importance of the situation. 

“George,”

“No, Alexander.” The General sighed, sagging backwards into his chair. “You are more useful here. Your brilliant young mind is needed on my staff, and in due time, you will one day prove to me in the context of your allegiance. It is a mere formality in your situation.” 

Alexander frowns. The boy might not like it, but the truth was bound to come out, and George still had use for him here, with the other aides. 

“I am not yet used to taking orders from you.” He explained. 

“Care to elaborate?” 

“I mean that in full respect.” Alexander palmed his forehead, attempting to find the words that seemingly couldn’t come out of the boy’s mouth. “I assume it is simply turning around my ideas in such a short amount of time. I still view you as the man who held me captive for his own gain for a period of time.” 

_ Is that what he really thinks of me? _

“I see.” George replied, seeing the end of the conversation. 

Alexander needed time, and he decided the best course of action for the young man was to stay where he is, transcribing simple letters that provided no true evaluation to the state of the army. He intended to shelter Alexander as long as he could from harm. 

“There is work to be done, Alexander. I need you alive.” 

Saying the phrase out loud seemed to give it more meaning. 

The boy in front of him could only nod. 

“There is work to be done.” 

* * *

_ August 23rd, 1777 _

_ Northern Territory of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania _

* * *

The blistering heat caused Alexander to wipe the back of his neck free of sweat as he leaned over his bowl of cold stew. The chilled food couldn’t even be counted as a proper meal, let alone _ stew. _He frowned at his hands, tempted to pour the damn thing over his uniform; anything to rid the horrid heat from his body. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander saw John walk up to him, Tilghman in tow. 

“Do you speak French fluently?” John asked, hand on his hip. “I am aware of your translations of letters, but reading and writing is quite different than holding a conversation.”

Alexander blinked upwards; they must have already finished their ‘supper’ for the day. 

“I became fluent at a young age. Why?”

“Come with us.” Was the only response that Tilghman had to offer, a satchel slung over his freshly pressed uniform. 

Alexander nodded, and took the bowl of the makeshift stew and held it to his lips, gingerly drinking down the cold liquid and small pieces of meat until the bowl was empty. His work never ceased. 

He stood, brushing off the dirt from the back of his pants, and followed the two other aides towards the direction of Philadelphia. 

“Washington has requested we meet a particular Frenchman before we march through the city tomorrow.” Explained John, keeping his eyes forward, too focused for his own good. 

“Wait,” Alexander shook his head, trying to keep up with the brisk pace. “We are marching through the city tomorrow?” 

“He hasn’t briefed you?” asked Tilghman, contorting his eyes. 

“I haven’t seen him in three days, I have had many letters to copy of his personal correspondence.” 

It was true. Alexander had been increasingly busy during the summer campaign, things beginning to stir among the troops. The letters that George had been sending increased steadily in number throughout the stationary encampment at Middlebrook, and then one day everyone had informed him that they were on the move towards Philadelphia, the only members knowing the General’s true plans being the officers of multiple battalions. 

He hadn’t conversed privately with George in nearly a month. Longer in the context of having the privacy that Alexander so desperately craved to feel the older man’s touch. 

“It will be okay, Alex.” John butt in, sensing that he was feeling uncomfortable with not being informed. “He will give a speech to the men tonight, it seems like you shall be briefed in due time.” 

Their footsteps could be heard against the leaves on the ground, out of the encampment and down towards the town to the south. Alexander kept walking, head facing forward, attempting not to be offended by the simple fact that George had not called on him to brief about the plans for the _ entire army the next day. _

Was he really that disposable to the General? He thought he would at least be held to the same standards as the other aides, let alone special attention in privacy. George had made no effort to get him alone recently, and at first, Alexander had thought it was just the campaign taking a toll on the other man. As the weeks stretched into months, however, between staying in Middlebrook and transitioning back into Pennsylvania, George still had not called on him. 

“A Frenchman, you say?” Alexander decided to change the conversation. 

“He has been fighting here and there along the southern front.” John stifled a laugh. “There is a rumor that he escaped from France wearing a lady’s dress.” 

He smiled at the two other aides as they reached the edge of town, bustling with activity. Carriages carrying the ridh passed by them, the horses trotting by and clapping their hooves on the cobble street. It looked freshly laid. 

Alexander looked at the shops lining the street as they dodged the men and women walking along the sides of the cobble street. They all seemed happy; almost as if the war had not affected them in any way. The continental army was stationed just outside of the town, to the north, and yet, none of them paid any mind to Alexander or his friends as they marched down the street to the port. 

“Busy this morning.” Tilghman said, stepping aside to not run into a small girl holding her father’s hand. 

“Seems to be.” John pointed just down the street. “We should make a left up one of the alleys, it will take us straight to the port.” 

“How will we know which man we are looking for?” Alexander asked. 

“He is _ French.” _John turned down the nearest alley, giving Alexander a clear view of the ship port just up ahead a couple of streets. “We will know when we see him.” 

The alley was quite dark, for mid morning; the shadows from the sun over the buildings casting it’s rays where it could not reach over the brick. 

They broke to the port, where John held out his hands to stop the three of them, looking over the ships that had recently been docked. 

Alexander looked at the huge ships, made of the finest wood and the largest od white sails. He suddenly felt very small, compared to those huge floating vessels within the port. He had lived on those ships. He had known what life was like for them. 

Those stupid, fucking _ rats- _

“There.” John gestured to the ship nearest to them. “It has arrived from Charlston. He should be there.” 

They started to walk towards the specific dock, causing Alexander to choke back bile from the back of his throat. 

“Is this why we have relocated to Philadelphia?” He asked instead, making sure his voice still works. “To meet another soldier?” 

“He isn’t just any soldier, Alex.” Tilghman sighed but continued to walk. So much for missing the briefing. _ What was I even doing, when Tilghman and John had been asked for this assignment? _

Suddenly, the dock lowered to reveal the wooden bridge connecting the docks to the boat, and people began to walk off of the ship in droves. Men in perfectly tailored breeches and coats held their wives, along with some dogs trotting down the bridge. 

Near the end of the congregation of men and women, a man wearing a blue continental coat stepped off of the ship, looking around with wide eyes. 

There was a red sash draping his body, hanging on by his right shoulder. He wore no hat, but his hair was pulled into a high ribbon, which struck Alexander as unusual; most men wore their hair lower, among their shoulders, for the ribbon was harder to tie when it is higher upon the head. 

The man saw them not soon after stepping onto the wooden docks, almost pushed by much taller men at his side. 

Then, Alexander was suddenly watching the man break into a run towards the three of them, breaking through the crowd. 

“This shouldn’t be good.” Tilghman muttered as the man kept running. 

Alexander was suddenly thrown aside as the man took John into his arms, hugging him to where he could hear the soldier gasp out in pain. After a few moments, the man pulled back. 

“Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette?” John asked, when he could finally breathe again. 

_ “That’s me!” _the man, speaking French and now deemed Lafayette, smiled. He reached forward, grabbing John’s face in his hands and placed a wet kiss on each cheek before pulling back. 

_ “Welcome to Philadelphia.” _ John said, trying his hardest not to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. _ “I am John, and these are my fellow peers, Alexander Hamilton and Tench Tilghman.” _

_ “My, what fine men!” _Lafayette did the same to Alexander, grabbing his face in his hands and kissing both of his cheeks as well. It felt odd to have another man;s lips against his skin, even more so that he had not felt George’s in as long as he had endured throughout the campaign. 

Tilghman received the same treatment, but immediately recoiled to the touch. 

“This how all the damn French act?” He asked, clueless of the forgien customs. He wiped the spit from his cheeks to the blue issued coat that he wore. 

“Yes, it is.” Lafayette snapped, jerking his head towards Tilghman. 

“You speak English?” Alexander interjected instead, more of a statement than a question. 

“Yes.” Lafayette turned. “Though very little. I do prefer French.” 

_ “Forgive my fellow friend, sir.” _ John stuck his hand out, attempting at a proper handshake. _ “Let us return to camp, where you shall meet the commander himself and walk with us tomorrow as an army, throughout this gracious city.” _

Lafayette just nodded, and without a second to spare, the four of them made their way back the way they had come, and walked steadily back to camp. 

Throughout the journey, John kept the conversation going in French, attempting to get Lafayette’s history in his mind before they had reached the commander’s tent. Alexander had half listened to the string of words he had mostly known of; John must have been right. It was quite harder to listen and speak French than to simply transcribe the language onto the documents. 

Tilghman kept quiet, not understanding a word the two of them were saying. Alexander thought it would serve him right for being so rude, but kept his mouth quiet during the walk out of solidarity. Most of the things that John and Lafayette were conversing about were merely pleasantries anyway. 

Even now, Alexander found it hard to fit in among his fellow men. He had come to terms with his allegiance long ago, and now the only thing he craved was leadership, instead of being led blindly into whatever George may have needed at any given moment. He felt out of place; as if he was a bright streak of red blood bouncing across a fresh snow. 

He had seen that blood, in Trenton. 

Before Alexander could fully understand what was happening, he was suddenly surrounded by soldiers, back within the confines of the encampment. No one had really moved since they had left; Alexander and his friends must not have been gone for the better part of two hours. 

_ “I am so excited to finally meet the famous George Washington!” _ The way that Lafayette said the General’s name made Alexander’s skin crawl with unneeded jealousy. _ “They talk very highly of him down south, the army stationed there craves leadership that seems to come at the man with ease.” _

He had not thought of jealousy before this moment, where another man had been talking of George in such a way. Alexander had of course heard the praises from Greene, or Knox (on very rare occasions), but they had been respectful, tactical, only used when needed. 

The way Lafayette spoke of George was purely for attention; he had not even met the man yet. It had made Alexander look twice at the man out of the corner of his eyes. The Frenchman surely looked better than he did in any given context. 

Fear suddenly rose in Alexander’s throat. _ When will I no longer be of use to him? _

He pushed the thought away, for now, he needed to be within George’s tent, alongside his fellow aides and introducing the French soldier to the General. _ Small steps towards a larger goal. _

They walked slowly through camp until they had finally reached the tent where Alexander knew George was. 

“Am I allowed to come in?” He asked, subtly bringing up the fact that George had been shutting him out on previous actions of the entire army. 

“I assume so.” John shrugged. “We will need the translation help. Perhaps you could tell the General what our dear Lafayette is saying, and I may translate for him?”

_ So much help you are, Johnny boy. _

“Sure.” 

“Your Excellency, sir.” John called through the tent flaps, and a murmur of ‘come in’ could be heard on the other side. 

Lafayette is the first to open the flaps of the large, outstretching his arms so that the rest of the team could enter. Immediately, Alexander’s eyes drift to the rear side of the tent, where a makeshift desk was set up and where George was standing out of the chair that sat behind it. 

His George. Alexander felt his knees go weak for a moment, but the situation was quickly spoiled. 

Lafayette rushed forward to take George in his arms, wrapping the large man close to his body, much like when they had previously met on the docks in Philadelphia.

George looked up, eyes connecting with Alexander, as Lafayette pulled away and kissed each cheek. He seemed to physically recoil at the touch, causing the Frenchman to step back. 

“_ My, I am so sorry! _” He rushes out, not attempting to change back to English. 

“He apologizes.” Alexander translates instead, moving to go forward to stand next to George as John and Tilghman stayed where they were next to Lafayette. 

“It is not needed.” John translated George’s words in a hush. “I was merely not expecting such a greeting.” 

“_ It is such an honor to meet the leader of the glorious revolution, no? _” 

Alexander does his best to find the word for ‘revolution,’ when George stops him. 

“Does he speak English?” 

George’s face turned towards Alexander fully. His eyes seemed tired; exhausted by the previous campaign, or even, ongoing campaign. His body language seemed sluggish, even, causing Alexander to recant his previous resentment for George not including him in a briefing. He assumed the benefit of the doubt. 

“Yes, I do, not the best.” Lafayette interjects, and must have heard George’s question. “I find it hard to, change, between tongues.” 

“Languages.” John fills in for him. The Frenchman could only nod. 

“I appreciate you coming here for the upcoming battle.” George starts to speak, although his speech is clearly articulated and slow, so that Lafayette may understand what is being said without needing Alexander or John to translate. “Your assets will be greatly useful here.” 

“I hope I am worthy.” 

“Now, gentlemen,” George turned to Alexander and the other aides, clapping his hands together. “As it seems that we no longer need translators, I bid you a good afternoon, for I wish to speak to our guest in private.” 

“Are you sure, sir?” John asks. “There still might be language issues-”

“I am thankful for your care, John.” Lafayette interjects instead. “But I am great here.” 

Alexander internally rolled his eyes. He wished he could see the Frenchman stumble over his own words, and to see George’s reactions. 

_ Lafayette is going to be alone with George, _he thought in a panic, but looked up to the General. 

The eyes he received back were calm. A silent plea. 

‘_ Trust me, _’ they seemed to say. 

So Alexander turns to John, giving him a look of submission, and they leave the tent, Tilghman in tow. 

-

George pulled on his best dress coat, the sun not even rising over the horizon. 

The candles were lighting up the inside of his tent the best it could, given the short supply. Only two stood with a proud flame; they had been lit hours ago. 

He had been unable to sleep before the journey of today. Planning the route to Brandywine Creek had been a long campaign, and Greene was about to snap his own neck for asking too much advice on where he should attack the British forces next. The strategic position of the creek would allow for natural land cover, along with scattered men of his own choosing on the high ground points would be able to onslaught the British with battery that Knox can provide. 

It was a good plan, George thought. It would protect Philadelphia to the best of his planning and knowledge. 

That left Alexander. 

Many months ago, in Middlebrook, when he had asked for his own command. George would lie to himself if he tried to ignore the fear of losing Alexander to this war. The other men, working under him, he could possibly handle. He would be able to move on from their deaths, because they fought for the spirit of the revolution; they knew what they were protecting. 

Alexander, on the other hand, was fighting for George himself. The boy trusted him. The boy fought _ for him. _If he were to die by the hand of his former peers, it would be George’s fault. 

He was certain of that. 

For then on out, his goal had been clear; steer him away from the main forces, keep him writing, keep him _ working _for the time being, until George could figure out a better plan for his boy. 

_ His boy. _

It still felt foreign to him. He prayed that Alexander would not stray too far from him; George had been his age once, and every man looked appealing to him at the time, regardless of his devotion to God. If the young man would act on those intentions, then George would not know what to do. 

In due time, Alexander himself would need to find a wife. Settle down with her after the war was won. 

Have children. 

The thought made George’s skin crawl with jealousy. 

He shook his head as he struggled to tie his boots on, fingers becoming clammy as he sat on the bed. He need not think of those thoughts today. He needed to command his army in the now, ride to Brandywine Creek, and take on the British forces there. George needed to focus. 

His concentration would not last long, however. 

As he finished his first boot, there was a scratching of cloth outside of his tent. Before George could call out for whoever was standing there, the flaps opened, revealing Alexander himself, fully dressed for the day to come. 

“Alexander!” he hissed, but was promptly ignored as the boy drew the flaps closed, securing them together with a tight knot. 

“Quiet, George.” 

Alexander walked to the bed where he was sitting, still continuing to attempt to tie his boots. The boy fell to his knees on the first floor of the tent. 

“How did you manage to get away?” 

“I told the other aides I was out for a piss.” Alexander reached for his laces on the second boot, beginning to tie them. “I figured we should have a conversation while I am able.” 

A quiet moment drifted between them. Alexander’s hair was perfectly tied back with a new blue ribbon, most likely a gift from another aide. His red one was nowhere to be seen on him. The continental army dress uniform hung on his frame closely. 

“I have longed to see you on your knees for me.” 

Alexander offered no reply, seemingly zeroed in on the task at hand. 

“You wished to talk to me.” George started to grow annoyed; they had places to be. “We cannot talk if you offer no words to me, Alexander.”

“You did not brief me.” He snapped his head up after tying the last knot, almost in a snarl. 

_ So this is what it is about. _

“You must understand-” 

“That is the point!” He hissed, still on his knees. “I do not understand, George. You insist I can help, but how can I when I am chained to a desk?” 

George closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He knew the question of a command was coming. He could feel Alexander’s anger simmering through the air; it was unmistakable, much like their time in the small tent of Trenton. 

When he had hit Alexander. 

“I am _ not _having you take command.” George emphasized. 

“Is that an order?” The boy on his knees asked. The fire in his eyes was stronger than any fireplace could ever hold. More like a bonfire, willing to rise it’s flames, and burn the trees above it, or the crop around it. 

“Yes, Alexander.” George reached forward to caress the boy’s cheek slowly. “Unfortunately, it must be, for your sake. I cannot lose you; I have just gotten used to having you around.” 

The fire dimmed within Alexander’s eyes as he relaxed at the touch. 

“I have missed you.” 

“I have, also.” George leaned forward to rest his own forehead against Alexander. “Incredibly so.” 

Their breathing mingled in the early morning air, the candle still flickering in and out within the space. Most of George’s things have been packed up and loaded on to the back wagons, causing considerable gaps between the simple cot and the desk. 

“The coat?” Alexander asked, eyes closed. George followed suit. 

“In the chest, already loaded. The pocket watch?” 

“In my trousers.” 

George felt the ghost of a smile across his lips. 

“You tend to favor it over all other things on your person.” He remarked, causing Alexander to smile back. 

“I’ll always favor you.” 

Unable to hold back longer, George tilted his head to the side to properly kiss Alexander, causing him to smile into the chaste kiss. If they could not have the daylight on their side when it came to the nature of this side in the relationship, then they would be able to have the early morning gleem, as the very least of their problems. 

Alexander kissed back tenderly, lifting his hand up to George’s own neck to steady himself. He had missed these parts between them, but between the campaign and the rest of the war, he was in no rush to bed Alexander so quickly. For now, it would have to wait. 

George pulled away from the sweet, chaste kiss, and looked ALexander in the eyes. The fire dimmed alright, but not by much, he was afraid. Alexander will always be his fire, his drive, his _ answer _to his problems. 

Or the creation of them. He couldn’t tell the difference between the two when his boy’s lips were right in front of them, begging to be kissed again. 

“Help me tie my cravat.” He said, instead, and stood upwards. Alexander followed suit. 

He handed the white cloth, newly washed, to the boy in front of him, who began to work it around George’s neck. 

“I am sorry.” He said to Alexander, watching those thin fingers beginning to tie the simple knots. 

“For what?” 

_ For capturing you. For hitting you. For trapping you in that horrible room. For using you. For letting you get taken under my watch. For not doing more to get you back safely. For not telling you that I love you out of fear for my own sanity. _

“For not granting you a command.” He decided on saying instead. 

“I suppose it cannot be done so simply.” Alexander’s fingers kept grazing George’s neck in light touches as he continued to knot the cloth properly. “I had only recently joined ranks, and the soldiers continue to stare at me. I can feel their eyes.” 

“I will say something to them, if you wish.” George lifted his hand to Alexander’s when the knot was done; it was warm within his. 

“Don’t.” He sighed in a chaste reply. “I will have to earn their trust, sooner rather than later. I will continue to be happily chained to a desk, if that is what they would see of me helping the cause.” 

George felt the hand on his own. It was obviously very small, compared to his own stature, but held no less scars or calluses. It held a story; and George would hear the full version one day. His days on that merchant ship. Now was not the time, however. 

“You should go back.” George pulled away, causing the boy to frown. “They will wonder where you are.” 

“What if I told them I was attacked by a bear?” 

“Alexander,” George couldn’t resist the laugh. “There are no _ bears _in Philadelphia.” 

“That you know of!” The boy jokingly pushed George’s shoulder lightly and backed up, looking at the empty space around him. 

“Do you have your sprig?” George asked, looking at the uniform that Alexander seemed to display so proudly. 

“In the aides tent. John went to pick them last night.”  
  
“Good.” George nodded. “Make sure to wear it on you before we ride through the city, please.” 

Alexander nodded before walking to the flaps of the tent. George had to stop him and say something, before he would regret doing so later. 

“Alexander, love. Ride with me through the city.” 

“Sir?” The boy turned, surprise on his face. “Tradition is Greene and Knox-” 

“I am already having Lafayette at my side during the parade, he is to replace Knox. I want you to be on my other side, and Laurens following not far behind you.” 

It took a moment of contemplation before all Alexander could do was nod. George smiled and let him go, the flaps of the tent coming undone and opening before his boy left his eyesight, closing the flaps behind him. 

His uniform was ready to be worn in public. All of his personal things were packed in the wagon, ready to be transported. His valor was in good spirits. 

It was time to leave, he presumed. 

George blew out the candle. 

-

“Mommy, look!” 

Jane shook her head as she continued to wash her husband’s merchant clothes within the small wash bin inside the kitchen. She had much to do today; she could not afford the time to glance at her son. 

“Peter, please-” She started, but was promptly interrupted by her son pulling at her dress. 

“Something is happening outside!” He cried, looking up at her with bright blue eyes. 

“What is it?” She sighed, running the brush through the white cloth in her hands. She still had another pile left to go next to her, sitting on the table where the food would be laid out later. 

“There are lots of people. More people that I have ever seen at once, mommy!” 

Peter was smiling wide, and she offered the glance towards the window of the house, where her son was pointing. Indeed, her son had been right; lines of people were standing at her front window, blocking the main street outside towards the southern part of Philadelphia. Women and men alike stood in their daily clothes, waving and cheering towards the northern side. 

Jane wondered how she had not heard them before, but blamed it on the frantic scrubbing of her own doing within the wash bin. 

“Can we see mommy?” Peter asked, ready to jump towards the door if she had said yes. 

“Let us go, then.” Jane sighed and let the cloth she was holding fall into the bin. She supposed it could wait for a few minutes while she escorted her son outside. 

Peter grabbed her hand and dragged her to the front door of their small house, and opened it for her, barely able to reach the knob because of his short height. She would have to sew him new clothes; her son would soon grow out of them. 

By God, he would be able to reach the door knob himself. 

As the pair walked outside, her son immediately left the safety of her hand and ran to the front of the line of people, causing Jane to sigh. So much energy for such a small child. 

The cheers were much louder outside of her home than within, causing Jane’s head to ache slightly. She pushed through the crowd in front of her, finally spotting her son in the front, right by the edge of the road, cheering along with the rest of the town folk. 

That is when she looked up to see what all the fuss was about. 

A tall man, wearing a tricorn hat and a blue continental army coat, riding on top of a white horse, walking the rest of the army along the street. 

He must have been two houses up the road, not passing her son yet as he screamed with pride. At his side were two brown horses, and more following behind him. Each and every man walked with a musket held closely to their side, and a green spig tied somewhere on their bodies. The man on the white horse waved to the crowd in front of him, leisurely making his way down the street to the southern side of town. 

Jane had thought almost nothing of the war in some time. Her husband worked for them, he thought, trading simple things such as silverware and cloth to the army. He made little pay in doing so, and she scolded him for not searching better work. Jane had called it a lost cause, this bloody war. Too many lives could be lost over what she saw as nothing more than a few pounds on tea. 

That was months ago, and she had not thought of the consequences since. 

The men continued to march, and Jane had to grab her son’s hand one more time to make sure he did not run in front of the preceding line of horses and boots. Peter was very excited to see the army. 

Then, she noticed the man on the white horse let his arm down, looking to another man on his right side, hair tied back in a blue ribbon. The pair of soldiers looked at each other, and smiled, seemingly full of hope while walking through the streets, crowds cheering at them. 

And for a moment, while watching the men smiling at each other, she had hope for the war. 

Something in those smiles seemed to give her hope. 

  
  


* * *

_ September 10th, 1777 _

_ Behind American Lines, Brandywine Creek, New Jersey _

* * *

  
  


“What do you _ mean? _” Alexander practically cried up to George, beyond frustration at this point. 

“You are not to set foot outside of the tent, Alexander.” His General calmly replied. “I thought I had made that clear.” 

“_ George! _” 

Alexander reached up to pull at his hair, turning away from the man standing in front of him. The journey to Brandywine had been long, his legs hurt from riding the horse for such a long time; he could only imagine how the soldiers felt after walking such a distance. 

But seeing the soldiers prepare for battle, watching them rush to battle positions after British intelligence arrived that they were marching towards the creek, observing every move that seemed calculated by the officers, put Alexander into such a _ rush _ to help out. He wanted to leave his desk, leave with the other aides and just _ help _the battle that was about to happen. 

Alexander had yet to see a true battle up close. He wanted to _ help, _dammit all. 

“You cannot expect me to _ seriously- _” 

“Yes, I can.” George spoke over him, now turning more frustrated, voice straining to keep his composure. “You are to stay in this tent. That is an _ order _.” 

Alexander groaned as he turned back to the General. 

He had been given so many orders over the past few months, he could almost grow numb to them. When he had turned, he had not expected the sheer amount of tasks he would be required to do, but he cannot stand for _ this. _

“Let me help.” He tried, calmer. “Let me just deliver water to the men, or help in the sick tent, just _ something, _please, George-” 

“I am your _ commander, _you will do as I say!” 

Alexander physically recoiled at the shout. George had never yelled at him like that before; a few shouts here and there to keep the men in line would do the trick. _ That is all I am now; a man for him to order around. _

“Sir.” Alexander said through gritted teeth. “You must allow me to do something.” 

“I do not know how many times I must explain this to you. Cornwallis cannot see you. The men across the lines cannot see you, or they will inform him, and if I recall, he is still on the hunt for _ you. _ The British still want _ you. _I cannot let you go back to them.” 

“Whatever happened to me having a choice?” Alexander shook his head, hair falling out of the ribbon he had hastily tied that morning. “Whatever happened to you letting me go? All those months in Morristown, you said I could _ leave. _” 

“That was before you decided to _ stay. _I now have to go out of my way to protect you-” 

“_ Protect me? _” 

Alexander could not believe his ears. 

“What have you ever done to _ protect _ me? Tie me up and leave me in a tent? Keep me unconscious? Hold me hostage within a God forsaken room? Keep me from Reed? Fail to capture me back from your own fucking _ men? _” 

_ Fatal blow. _

George had no words to offer him. Alexander had been manipulated into joining the cause, all because of his little feeling for it’s commander. He should have known this day would come. 

“I cannot lose you again.” The General of the army looked to the floor. “What makes you think I could possibly handle doing so? Why do you resist the _ love _I try to give you?” 

Alexander froze. 

“Love?” He asked, almost scoffing at the word. “This is not love. Holding me back is not love. Keeping me hostage is _ not _ love. If anything, I am the one showing _ you _ love, for I have stuck by you, dealt with being chained to a desk for you, staying, all because of _ you. _” 

They locked eyes. George, his eyes stuck in a stalemate with Alexander, a look of shock painted across his features. 

This was the first time he had said his feelings out loud. He cared intensely for George, he knew that much only months ago. He had finally put a word to the feeling only recently, and this, hearing it come out of his mouth in an _ argument _for God’s sake, felt all too real for him. 

“That was out of line.” Alexander mumbled and turned away. “Forgive me.” 

“Do you love me?” George asked. 

In that moment, he seemed so vulnerable to Alexander. Here stood the most powerful man in the country, an entire army listening to his commands without fail, ready to attack the enemy, and the only thing he had asked was if Alexander had loved him. 

He may have been resistant to blindly follow orders, but he was not a liar. 

“I do. But you need to explain to me why you need me here” 

“Cornwallis cannot see you alive, he will hunt for you until he has you within the British lines, I know it for certain. And what if you get hurt, under my watch? I would not be able to forgive myself if I did nothing to prevent it.” 

“What is it with you and _ protection? _” Alexander scoffed. 

“I protect this country because I wish the best for these people who live among our lands, and I love the idea of a new nation forged with proper ideals, and not those of tyranny.” George took a breath before extending his hand to Alexander’s shoulder. “I protect you because I love you.” 

_ I protect you because I love you. I protect you because I love you. I protect you because I love you. _

Alexander ran his hand through his hair for what felt like the millionth time that day. He sighed in defeat, giving in to George’s touch. 

“I know you are not used to doing nothing. At most, you could have been doing more within the British ranks than here in our own, but _ please, _Alexander, stay. For me. That is all I ask of you.” 

Alexander looked up at his General. The most powerful man in the new country. His eyes were soft, apprehensive, almost as if he was afraid that Alexander himself would snap at any moment. 

He decided that he wouldn't. 

His hand drifted up before he fully understood what he was doing, and brushed the tip of his finger onto George’s lips. It traced the length of them, corner to corner, Alexander trying his best to memorize the feeling under his fingertip. 

This could very well be the last time he would see George, anyway. 

The General’s hand was still heavy on his shoulder, grip becoming seemingly tighter as the actions that Alexander was taking. He looked up, asking with his eyes, and flicking them down towards George’s lips in clarification. The older man simply nodded, drawing Alexander closer within his space so their lips could meet properly. As they both sighed into the kiss, George’s hand moved from his shoulder to his hip, bringing him even more impossibly closer. 

His lips tasted of stale tea, which made Alexander cringe in a small reminder of why they had met to begin with. The war had brought them together, and it would continue to keep them together, until it ended. 

_ Until it ended, _he thought, as George licked at his lower lip to allow entrance. He granted it. 

Alexander opened his mouth, and George’s tongue slipped in, causing him to sigh in relief at the feeling. George’s tongue within his mouth was warm, and gave him a feeling of being home, something that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

Just as George began to lick at every tooth to memorize the feeling of being inside Alexander’s mouth, someone walked into the tent. 

“I heard there was yelling-” 

John _ fucking _Laurens. 

Alexander immediately pushed George off of him, separating their mouths with an audible wet pop that seemed all too loud within the tent. His heart was suddenly beating out of his chest, filling with adrenaline and pumping it to the rest of his body at record speeds. 

“What the hell?” John mumbled, looking at both of them with wide eyes, almost as if he had just witnessed a murder taking place in front of him. 

“I must,” George straightened his uniform, walking to the entrance to the tent. “Go and check with Greene how things are going.” 

He brushed past John, still standing motionless and confused, not bothering to acknowledge his other aide. 

_ This is very very very bad, _Alexander thought. 

“What the hell was that?” John rushed forward, checking for marks along Alexander’s skin. “Did he force you? Did he hurt you? What else has he done? Oh, dammit, who else has he hurt-” 

Alexander stopped listening. George didn’t do anything wrong, what the fuck was John _ talking _about- 

“He did not hurt me.” He decided to say, his focus now shifting away from the flaps of the tent over to John’s concerned face. “I did that to him, in fact.” 

John seemed to become relaxed at that, but quickly returned to that of confusion. 

“What is happening between the two of you?” He asked, genuinely. “What the _ hell _is going on?” 

Alexander didn’t respond at first. 

“Don’t give me the speech about how it is private, you wouldn’t have been sucking on each other’s faces in his own tent if it was private.” 

“It _ is _private, John. Not to mention that it is a crime punishable by law.” 

“_ Exactly! _ ” John hissed, now becoming angry. “If this happened to get out to the entire army, the whole cause is _ done.” _

Realization dawned upon his face. 

“Were you sent here to do it?” The other aide asked. “Did someone _ send _you here to get him in your bed?” 

Alexander saw John reach for his pocket within his coat, where he knew a blade sat, resting. 

“No, John, _ John-” _

Alexander was cut off by his hands being seized by his so-called friend, preparing to fight him here in his tent. They were bent behind his back, forcing him to turn away from John, who grunted in force to keep Alexander still. He tried to kick his legs backward, but somehow missed, and John continued to hold Alexander’s hands together with one hand now instead of two, attempting to reach for the blade in his breast pocket. 

“I was not sent here to bring him down!” He struggled. “John, I love him! I am on your side!” 

The room seemed to stop spinning for a moment. John stopped trying to strangle his arms together, and Alexander stopped struggling under the now empty weight of his fellow aide’s hands on his wrists. His breath stopped gasping for air, and John stopped trying to contain his own. The space around them just seemed to freeze. 

John let him go. 

Alexander stumbled backward for a moment, regaining his balance as he struggled to focus on John in front of him. His face was still angry, but only slightly so, more of shock rather than true anger of his actions. 

“My God, Alexander.” the other aide groaned. “How _ foolish _are you?” 

“Do _ not call me that. _”

“Why? Is that what _ he _calls you? It’s your damn name!” 

Alexander stood his ground, dumbfounded at the accusation.  
  
“You truly are a _ foolish _ boy,” John suppressed a sickening laugh, making Alexander’s stomach turn. “You _ love _him?” 

And for once of his life, he had no response. 

Alexander had known that he would be rash in dire situations. Once, on the merchant ship, he had exploded on the captain for not telling him of a specific shipment, making the tracking of said shipment very hard, causing Alexander to do more work than he had been anticipating. He stayed up for nights on end, trying to find that shipment to put into the report. He had lashed out on that captain. 

Another time was an argument with another British soldier during his tenure in Albany. He had forgotten the original spat, for Alexander was far too drunk to remember anything that had led up to the fight, but he did remember colliding his fist with the other man and watching him fall to the ground with a thunderous sound. 

On both occasions, he had known what he wanted to say in the moment. He had known what he wanted to do, how to react, no matter how bad of a decision it might have been. 

But now, as he bore his eyes onto John standing only feet away, breathing rapidly in shock from what he had just said. Alexander truly had no words to offer his friend. 

_ Is he still a friend, considering he just tried to hurt me, and accuse me of being a spy? _

“I-” Alexander started, but bit his tongue before he could continue. Words would forever be his legacy here, within camp and on George’s staff; but somehow, words failed him. 

“You are foolish.” John spoke for him anyway. “You are so incredibly foolish that you think that _ you are in love with him. _ I have been by George’s side for the same amount you have, and yet, I have seen no indication that he would step down from this war. From this cause. From the cause that _ you _ weren’t even fighting for when the two armies clashed at Lexington. You have no _ idea _what this means to him, Alexander.” 

“Of course I have an idea!” Alexander hissed out, desperate to defend himself. “Why do you think I stayed so quickly? Why do you think I continue to fight for _ your _ freedom, when the point of view for this damn war is circumstantial at best? I am fighting for _ him, _I care that he believes in something, and damn it, I love him, and this is what I choose to do.” 

John stayed quiet, almost begging him to continue. 

“I will in time learn to fight for you. But for now, he is my only reason why I am here.” 

“I am sorry. For attacking.” John breathed out a sigh. 

“We all act rashly. I know I do so.” 

Alexander decided to stick out his hand, in a bold attempt to reconcile with John. He needed that friendship; he needed that ally within camp, because if no one else had his back, then who else will? 

John looked down, hesitated, and took it within his own. They shook hands. 

“Will you tell me of how this happened?” The other aide asked, still holding a firm grip on Alexander’s own. 

“One day. Now is not the time. A battle is coming.” 

John nodded and dropped his hand. 

“So, have you always been interested in the nature of men?” 

Alexander laughed and reached forward to push John, who only smiled in return. 

-

His heart was racing within his ears. 

Alexander had tried his best, he really had, to stay within the tent that George had ordered him to do. Once gunshots could be heard in the distance, he had been picking at his nails so that he could keep himself occupied. Then, screams echoed throughout the camp, and he could no longer keep to himself within the confines of the small aide’s tent. 

John had left to go help the wounded, and Alexander decided to do the same. 

The station of the army was in complete chaos. Men ran past him; some carrying pitchers of water to help the soldiers on the battlefield, others were carrying wounded men in their shoulders, walking in the direction of the sick tent. 

Alexander ran. 

“John!” He called out, opening the flaps to the largest tent within the camp, exposing himself to the bleeding men of the army. 

Immediately, his nose scrunched up in distaste from the pure _ smell _of the place. It reeked of shit and blood and sweat, while men could be heard screaming left and right, blood soaking through their blue coats. 

He felt the urge to vomit when he saw a man without an arm, bleeding on to the floor, seemingly lifeless as he stared up at the ceiling of the tent. 

“Alex!” 

John waved him over to a soldier in the back corner, hands tied up in cloth as he tended to the man in the makeshift cot made from sheets and hay. 

He weaved through the other cots and the other volunteers helping out the main doctor. 

Alexander thought he had met him once. Doctor Rush. For the moment, as he walked to the back end of the tent to meet John, the doctor was nowhere to be seen. 

“Here,” John reached out and handed him one of the pieces of cloth. “Tie this as tight as you can around the gash in his leg.” 

He was quick to respond, grabbing the white fabric from his fellow aide and following the instruction, noticing the blood stained pant leg. He peeled the breeches up to expose the wound fully, tearing it away from the skin. Alexander suppressed the feeling of nausea once more. 

As soon as the cloth touched the gaping wound of the soldier lying in front of him, blood began to seep through, forever staining the fabric. The soldier moaned. 

“God, they sound miserable.” He grunted, forcing the cloth deeper into the wound and tying it to its own. 

“They do.” John sighed as he worked on the man’s other arm, on the opposite side of Alexander. “That is why I wish to help, in a time like this. So they are not alone.” 

“That is a good plan.” Alexander finished tying the knot, letting the cloth sit now on the soldier’s leg. 

“Didn’t Washington order you to stay within the tent?” John asked, also finishing his side of the soldier, and nodding to the next man over. Time to move on. 

“Oh, he did.” he weaved his way to follow John, taking more spare pieces of cloth to tie on to the next man. This soldier only had a minor graze of a bullet on his arm. 

“You’re disobeying orders?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Alexander took a smaller cut of fabric and leaned down to the soldier, still awake and conscious. 

“Make sure you hold this to your graze. Leave as soon as you can, there are men with far worse wounds than you.” He said to the man under him. The soldier nodded. 

John could only stare at him as he worked through the other soldiers. He was sure that he was being judged; both by the men he was helping, wondering why an aide and a turncoat would be helping them in this dire time, and by John, for defying George’s orders to stay out of the fight and to keep himself confined to the tent he had resided in. 

Considering the fight that they had just had, John was sure to be thinking why he had defied orders so easily. Alexander supposed that this would prove his loyalty to the cause. 

The pair of them made their way through the tent, seeing men come and go, for a couple of hours. By the time that John had seen a decrease in new cases and started getting reports that he must transcribe to the General, suggesting that the two of them return to the aide’s tent, Alexander had gotten used to the sight and smell of blood, and his eyes were beginning to go cross at the amount of focus that he had devoted to the men around him. 

That led to John transcribing said reports from multiple officers within the aide’s tent, empty besides the two of them, while Alexander sat in a chair nearby, picking at the wooden desk. 

“These numbers aren’t looking good.” John sighed as he set aside another parchment. 

“Let me see.” 

Finished papers were put in Alexander’s hands, and it took nearly all he had not to gape at the numbers as he scanned them. Full brigades were wiped out, most regiments had lost half of their men, wound after wound listed with men that had the injuries that Alexander and John had treated together. 

“These are the most recent numbers?” Alexander asked, knowing that the battle was still continuing, if the gunshots still commencing outside of camp were any indication of the situation. Those sounds started to seem closer than they had been that morning. 

“They are.” John set down the quill, turning to Alexander. “Have you seen George?” 

Alexander froze. 

“I have not thought of him.” 

“Oh.” John held out his hand for the papers to return to his hands, and Alexander handed them back without a second thought. Those men didn’t matter to him. George mattered the most. 

“Does that make me a bad person? That he simply did not come to mind even though I claim to love him?” Alexander asked, becoming panicked that he had not heard anything from his lover.

“Weren’t you busy?” John answered his question with another question. “You were helping the men that he led into battle during every campaign, there is no fault for focusing on only those matters on hand.”

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Alexander felt pain in his chest at the accusation. 

“He will.” John reached out to put his hand on Alexander’s shoulder to reassure him. “Just relax, the battle is still ongoing, that means he has not fallen yet.” 

They sat in silence for the next few moments, trying their best to focus on the positives of the situation. The battle was still commencing, which meant three seperate things; that there were enough men to still fight, that there was ground that still could be gained, and that George was still alive and riding his horse into battle. 

George was still alive. He needed to hold on to that simple fact. 

“_ My friends! _” 

Both Alexander and John whipped their heads to the entrance of the aide’s tent, only to confirm their suspicions on who was standing there. The French language was unmistakable on this man that Alexander had only recently met. 

Marquis de Lafayette stood with a sleepy smile on his face, his coat covered with dirt and grime from the battle that he had been sent out to. He was leaning on his left leg, and on his right, his bright red sash that had once been tied on his chest. Alexander could see the blood seeping through it. 

“_ I seem to have been injured! _” The Frenchman laughed, before his knees buckled under him and he fell to the dirt ground, still by the entrance to the tent. 

“Fuck!” John cried, immediately standing and rushing over to Lafayette, Alexander not too far behind. He heard his chair fall over, including the scattering of parchment behind him. 

They both made it over to the Frenchman just in time before his head would have hit the ground in a sickening _ thud, _John’s hands catching Lafayette’s head and lifting it so that he would be okay. 

“_ Did I fall? _” Lafayette asked, now looking at the ceiling instead of looking at John or Alexander directly. He was still speaking French to the both of them; not that it was particularly a problem for the pair of aides. 

“He seems to be in a little shock.” John scanned his body quickly for other wounds, Alexander doing the same; there was none. “Can you pull some of the desks together so we can lay him on it?” 

Alexander could only nod, beginning to work. He heard John talk to Lafayette in French, trying to relax him, as he took the papers off of his own desk and Tilghman’s own. It took a good amount of force to put them together, sliding them across the dirt to the middle of the tent, and he sighed in relief when they were long enough to hold someone on top of them. 

“Here, I’ll help you lift him.” 

He walked over to John, attempting to keep his head on straight and stay calm, deciding to lift the upper half of Lafayette’s body so he would not further injure his leg. John knew more about that kind of thing more than he did on his own. 

It took a while to finally help the Frenchman on the collided desks, but when they did, John checked his pulse along his neck. 

“Heartbeat is still strong enough for it not to be too bad.” He remarked. “I saw no other wounds, but we need to get that sash off of him if he doesn’t want it infected.” 

John unwrapped the leg, seeing the bullet wound that plagued Lafayette. Even from his position near the beginning of the desks, where the Frenchman’s head laid, he could see the blood seeping on to the floor through the bottom of his calf. It was through and through. 

“Oh thank god.” He sighed, letting his head droop in between his shoulders as his arm gripped the edges of the desk. “The bullet went through.” 

“Do you have a cloth?” 

Alexander went to his desk, holding Lafayette’s head, and dragged open the bottom drawer. Pulling out an unused washcloth from the bottom, he handed it to John quickly, overseeing his fellow aide work on tying it together. 

“_ How are you feeling _?” He asked in French, standing over Lafayette’s head again. 

“_ Like I have been shot, my friend. _” he laughed upwards, eyes starting to droop. 

“John, he’s beginning to fall asleep.” 

“Let him.” The other aide finished tying the cloth, thankfully no blood spilling through too roughly. “It would be better for him to rest.” 

“_ Did you hear that _ ?” Alexander asked. “ _ Try and rest, my friend. _” 

Lafayette weakly nodded, sleep overtaking him almost immediately. Eyes now fully closed and breathing slowed, Alexander took in a deep breath. 

“We only had just gotten him to fight for us.” He remarked. “It would have been awful if we had lost him.” 

“That is how George thinks of you.” John said, pulling the chair that Alexander had knocked over previously and sitting next to the desk, keeping an eye on the Frenchman’s leg. 

“You think so?” 

“By the way I saw him kissing you?” John smiled slightly at him. “I know so.” 

And so Alexander told him his story. 

He told John about everything him and George had done together. From their talks within the Morristown tavern, to the walks around town, to their first kiss. When he was stolen away from Reed, and how he had returned with Taylor. Then, the deal they had made when he returned, how he would be able to work for the army. The first time they had said that they loved each other. 

“You’re saying that I walked in the middle of a lover’s spat?” John asked, when the whole story was done. 

“Essentially.” 

“Laurens!” 

_ George, thank God. _

It was George’s voice outside of that tent, and he turned to the flaps to the entrance, where the shadow of the General could be seen, casting against the cloth. 

“Come in, sir.” John nervously looked over at Alexander, knowing he must have found out that he was missing. 

“Where the _ hell _is Alexander-” 

George stopped talking as they connected eyes. It was a fleeting moment, and relief washed over the General’s eyes, as he took in Alexander’s safe form. His eyes then darted to Lafayette’s unconscious body, then to his legs where the cloth was just beginning to show blood. 

“Sir?” Alexander asked, noticing the grave face on George. 

“Pack of as many things as you can. We are abandoning camp.” 

“Wait, what?” John asked in confusion. “Sir, what is happening?” 

George sighed and ran his fingers across his dirtied face. 

“We have lost Philadelphia.” 


	6. Act Three, Scene Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a couple things to say before you start reading, so please, take the time to glance over them. 
> 
> 1\. I am not going to address the current situation on the Black Lives Matter movement. This is not a political blog, and even though I care very much about the issue, the reason for this fic is to provide a distraction from daily life, so that people may be able to find happiness and support here. 
> 
> 2\. If you do wish to see my opinions on the subject, or just funny things about history and stuff like that, then follow my tumblr. I do talk about my fic on there! (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thereal13colonies)
> 
> 3\. This chapter is 20,000 words long, give or take. I meant to make the entire Valley Forge storyline within this arc one chapter, but unfortunately, I may have gotten a bit carried away. Plus, the sex scene is 6,000 words, so there's that lol. 
> 
> Once again, I hope you all are safe, supported, and loved, in a time like this. Feel free to use the comments to support each other. I appreciate each and every one of you. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

_December 19th, 1777_

_Valley Forge, Pennsylvania_

* * *

George had to refrain from keeping his eyes closed as he stood atop his horse, rolling into their next permanent settlement to wait out the winter. 

He had thought long and hard about where to put his army. Too close to Howe in Philadelphia, and he would be easily ambushed after months of protecting his men. Too far away from the city, and he could lose sight of their actions and movements within the city. 

That is how he decided to station his army in Valley Forge. 

His first order of business, after finding Alexander safe with Laurens and assured that he would be protected by Greene, George took the short trip to York, making sure that the Continental Congress was safe in the nearby city, not taken over by the British. He never even saw the men claiming to represent the new states of America, but instead, met Selah Strong at the border of the town. He was insistent on keeping the General out of the city; the men of the Congress were tired, and it would be a bad idea in case George had been followed by a scouting party of redcoats. 

After, when most of his men were already located at Valley Forge, he rode back, picking up men along the way. 

Greene was now at his side, guiding the last troops to their stakeout for the winter. In the distance, he could see some tents and fires lighting up the horizon as the sun began to let its rays droop behind the treeline past camp. 

Blood streaks could be seen along the frozen ground. He winced and looked ahead. 

“They have set up tents?” He turned to Greene, also observing the new camp. 

“They seem to have done so. Didn’t you want them to build huts using the timber nearby?” 

“I did.” George sighed as he rolled his eyes. His men could not have bothered to think of a better way to take care of themselves? Had he not done enough for them? 

They rode in silence, Nelson’s hooves clicking on the ground as the small party of men descended down the first road. It had been so cold these past few weeks; George could see his own breath in front of his face. 

“Make sure to order the men to begin cutting down trees. They need to build safe huts.” 

Greene nodded in his peripheral vision as they continued to ride. 

The loss of Philadelphia had been entirely his fault. He had pushed his men too hard, the British had outsmarted his army, and his focus had obviously been elsewhere as his mind worried about Alexander every waking moment. It was the most disastrous distraction from the task at hand; winning the war. 

He had not seen the boy since they had abandoned Brandywine, a mere satchel slung over his shoulders. He had heard a rumor spreading throughout camp that the boy had been ready to fight a sentry after he was ordered to leave, but refused to evacuate the camp unless he had gone to the aide’s tent. 

He had refused, because he had gone back for a spare coat. 

But that was the rumor. George can assure himself that it was his own dress coat he had gifted the boy, far too big for Alexander, that he had gone back for. He treasured the thing; and George could not blame him. If he had left it behind, he would not be sure if his aide would ever be able to forgive himself. It stood as a symbol between them. 

The sentries guarding camp came up to them, not bothering to ask the passcode into camp, for they knew quite well who George was at this point. At least, he hoped they did. 

He dismounted his horse, and began to walk by foot through the beginnings of tents lining the entrance into Valley Forge. Green was not far behind. 

Men sat at every tent, huddling close to the fire, most without shoes, let alone a spare blanket to keep themselves warm. George could smell the cheap ale that they must have snuck into their makeshift barracks. 

“They will not survive long here, George.” Greene noted, noticing the same sights as he was. 

“I am aware.” Was all he could say. “I am heading to the stables, let me take your horse.” 

“Thank you, sir. Until we meet again” 

Greene lent him the reins from his own frozen hands, stepping aside to let George walk north to where the stables were located. Greene went to his left, to his own headquarters, near Knox. What a fight that had been. 

As both Nelson and Greene’s horse walked slowly at both of his sides, George could only seem to watch as a distant bystander as the men around him watched their own General walk by. Most were silent, wearing blank expressions, not bothering to call out his obvious failure to defend Philadelphia and his once more failure to recapture it in the battle of Germantown. Deep down, George knew it was his fault. 

_ My fault. Everything here is my fault. These men are dying because of me. _

He reached the stables. George’s body seemed to be moving on its own as he tied up the horses he had walked with here. He fed them stale apples from a wooden bucket. He gave nelson a small sugar cube as he stroked his horse’s mane. 

His mind kept echoing that phrase. 

_ My fault. My fault. My fault.  _

George shook his head, and instead moved on, towards the very north eastern side of camp, where he would be staying in a townhouse owned by one of the locals. 

Alexander had been right, there was far more work to do than to stand around and blame himself. He would soon see his boy, but for now, he would have to get settled within his quarters. 

George wondered if he would have more time, before the war was done. 

-

Alexander woke up by an incessant shaking on his shoulder. 

He turned, eyes foggy and half lidded. He had been exhausted when he had arrived at Valley Forge, only sleeping for maybe half as much as he should. He started to loathe the days when he had been away from George; but it could not be helped, for he was far too busy somewhere else in the colonies to fully return to his main forces. 

Alexander fully opened his eyes only to see Lafayette standing over him. 

“You are small.” He said, absolutely no context. 

“John?” Alexander turned, only to see the rest of the tent was empty, safe for the Frenchman currently towering over him. He noticed that Lafayette was also speaking English,  _ in full sentences  _ now. 

“He is not here.” The Frenchman reached forward and pinched Alexander’s arm, to which he flinched at the action. “You are small.” 

“What the fuck, Laf.” Alexander sat up, vision clearing but a pounding headache began to take its place. “What are you talking about?” 

“They want us to chop down trees, to make house.” Was all he offered as an answer. “You are too small to chop down trees.” 

“I am not  _ small. _ ” 

“ _ My friend,  _ I think you are.” Lafayette finally leaned out of Alexander’s personal space, giving him time to wake up properly. “John made me wake you up. He is getting the axe.” 

“Just one?” Alexander rubbed his eyes and slid out from under the thin covers. He would admit to himself that building huts would be a nice change of pace from the cloth tents that kept no heat inside them whatsoever. He would memorize the cracks in between the wood, rather than the imperfections within the woven cloth. 

“No, more.” 

“Then it is said like ‘axes,’ as in more than one.” Alexander politely corrected his friend as he started to get dressed for the day. 

Under his cot was George’s coat, his own set of spare clothes, and George’s pocket watch. He leaned down to grab what he needed before slipping his clothes over his night garments. 

After getting ready, he stepped outside of the tent to only be faced with Tilghman and John, two extra axes in their hands. John handed one to Alexander and Tilghman roughly shoved the heavy tool into Lafayette’s hands, who nearly dropped it into the snow. 

“Tilghman, take Lafayette to the area we scoped out. I wish to speak with Alexander for a moment.” John said, nodding his head to the forest north of them. 

The Frenchman and the aide left without another word, Lafayette looking back at them before lugging the axe to the woods. 

“George came back last night.” 

  
  
Alexander felt his breath hitch.  _ George was back. He was somewhere in camp. He was safe.  _

“He didn’t come for me.” 

  
  
“I know,” John shot him a sympathetic look. “That is why I am telling you.” 

Alexander didn’t know what had been happening around him recently, if he was to tell the truth. The rush from Germantown to Valley Forge had separated Him and George, but at the moment, the commotion hadn’t made Alexander think twice of the move. The army needed to retreat, it was quite that simple. When it was informed to him that George would not be with the main army for a while, he had merely accepted it. But now, George was back, and he hadn’t even bothered to request Alexander’s presence. 

John gestured to where Tilghman and Lafayette had taken off, and they began to walk, axes over their shoulders. 

“He has taken quite a hit, you know.” Alexander tried to find an explanation. “Between Brandywine and Germantown he had hardly said a word to me.” 

“We all have lost, it is not just him.” 

“And yet, he is the one blamed.” Alexander sighed at the painful truth. “Congress blames him for losing Philadelphia. Congress puts the blame against him whenever there is a loss.” 

“Alex, Lafayette was  _ shot- _ ”

“I know!” He interrupted John. “People died, soldiers got shot, and it is George who has to deal with the blood on his hands.” 

They broke camp, getting closer to the treeline in the early morning sun, reflecting the white snow into their eyes. Alexander shivered at the cold seeping into his bones. In the distance, he could see Tilghman begin to hack at a nearby tree, Lafayette watching his motions closely. 

“It is on all of us.” John didn’t look at Alexander, only forward, towards their goal. “You have to wonder how long this will go on.” 

Alexander paused, thinking of what to say next. 

_ I wish the war would not end. I wish it would continue forever. That way, I can stay by George’s side, fighting for him, and he will still have a use for me. Once this war is over, I have nowhere else to go. I cannot follow him.  _

_ Our paths diverge, inevitability.  _

“I know what you’re thinking, Alex.” John said, when he didn’t respond. “He cannot throw you away that easily.” 

“And how do you know that?” 

For once, John didn’t have a straight answer. They were almost at the treeline anyway, so the conversation was over just as it had begun, leaving Alexander more confused than how he had woken up that morning. 

“Who is small now?” He called out to Lafayette, struggling to hit the tree he was staring at, almost as if it would fall over on its own with his eyes only. 

“ _ Shut the fuck up, Alex! _ ” 

“Hey!” John scolded, Alexander laughing. “English only!” 

“ _ How about this, _ ” Lafayette held up his axe. “Fuck you, Americans!” 

They all laughed together before Alexander picked a tree furthest from Tilghman, not in the best mood to deal with his stubbornness. 

He breathed in and out as he stared at the thick trunk.

_ Where will I go once this is over?  _

Alexander lifted up his axe, and hit the tree with everything he had. 

-

He lifted his nose at the mere stench of the camp around him. 

After being released from prison in New York, passed over to the Continental Army under the flag of truce, he had rushed to Valley Forge on his own, buying a horse from a farmer upstate. It had been a long journey, and to come back to join the fight to  _ this,  _ men lying around practically naked and bleeding, shit in random places, along with stained snow, he had disregard for the hope of the war. 

Charles Lee sneered at the men around him. 

Pathetic men. 

He gave his horse to a fellow sentry, offering to take it from him when he had seen Lee’s rank displayed along his taddart dress coat. It had been well over a year since he had seen the light of new clothes. 

A man leaning by on a nearby tree stood smoking a pipe. Charles chose to go to him for help, strolling up to him. He put away the pipe, tossing it down to the snow. 

“Young man, may I ask where General George Washington is residing?” He asked. 

“And who are you?” The man retorted, disrespectfully. “Last time I had known, we do not let random soldiers waltz up to his headquarters.” 

He blinked at the man against the tree.

“You must learn your major’s, then.” Charles held out his hand, attempting not to take offense. “Major General Charles Lee, requesting the location to where I may be able to finally see the General after all my months spent in captivity.” 

The man immediately fixed his slouched posture, eyes briefly going wide at the realization of who he was talking to. He reached out to shake Charles’ hand. 

“Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Burr, sir. Please forgive me for my behavior.” 

“It is no trouble.” They released hands, and Charles looked over the camp. “I understand that tensions are high. I hear there are now British among our ranks.” 

“Weren’t you in New York?” Burr asked. “How did you hear of that?” 

“Rumors travel fast. I assume you knew, as well.” 

Burr could only nod. 

“I will escort you to Washington’s headquarters, if you would let me, sir.” The young man gestured for Charles to follow. “Allow me to make up for the disrespect.” 

Charles Lee nodded, following the young man to the main path of the encampment, winding in between new wooden huts being constructed along the path, replacing tents that he had seen at the entrance. 

“I see the camp is coming along well.” Charles almost scoffed at his own words, but kept silent. “Washington ordered the huts?”    
  
“He has.” Burr kept a slow pace, observing the camp around him as well, almost as if he was seeing it for the first time. “It is a new strategy. He seems to be adamant that the army will stay here for quite a while.” 

“Is that wise?”    
  
“I cannot say.” 

A silence drifted between them. From the short conversation that Charles had just participated in, he could tell that Burr had his own opinion on the matter. By the look on his face, to the way his hands seemed to be stone as they wove together behind his back, to the very gleam in his eyes when he had said they were expecting to stay here for a long period of time, Aaron Burr seemed to express distaste towards Washington’s decision. 

Charles wondered why he had not chosen to speak such an opinion. The beliefs of the soldiers is what matters in this war, not the decision of one man telling the rest of his men what to do. Not too unlike the King George across the sea; the very one they have been fighting for years. 

They reached the Northern side of camp, where a brick house came into view. It was quite small, considering the fuss that everyone made in Washington’s favor. The chimney on the far side of the house was giving off black smoke into the air, and sentries stood at the entrance, postures straight at attention and guarding the door.

“This is where he is.” Burr held his hand out. “The sentries will escort you to his inside office. I am sure he knows you are coming.” 

“I sure hope he does.” Charles took the young man’s hand once more. “Thank you for your time.” 

“Pleasure to be of service.” 

And just as abruptly as he had entered Charles’ scope in the entrance of the camp, Burr turned and made his way back towards where he was standing before, disappearing behind the wooden huts. 

The Major sighed as he headed towards the front door. He pulled out a paper from his breast pocket; his release papers, and showed it to the guard. They let him inside with ease. 

As he stepped within the small house, warmth enveloped his body from a nearby fireplace, and he was immediately ushered through the hallway entrance, taken to a room in the back of the house. The door was closed. 

Charles reached up and knocked. 

“Your Excellency, sir. Major Charles Lee.” 

“Come in.” 

  
  
The powerful voice of the General carried through the door, beckoning him to come inside. He breathed in a breath of courage, and opened the door handle. 

Inside, was a small office space. A single desk was laid in front of some windows in the back of the room, which were currently drawn closed due to the weather outside. The fireplace crackled to his left, even warmer within the office than it had been outside in the sitting room. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a small sitting table was immediately to Charles’ left. Sitting behind the desk was Washington himself, reading a document of some kind as his eyes flickered upward to take in who had just entered the room. 

“Charles Lee.” Washington stood, setting down the document and reaching out his hand. “Welcome to Valley Forge.” 

Charles shook it. 

“It is, an honor, to be here.” He paused, biting back a look of distaste towards the image of the current camp. It surely was not an honor, but respect was due to Washington, and he would not voice his opinions yet. 

“Now,” George pulled back and turned to the desk, sorting through the many documents displayed across the wooden surface. “Let me find your reinstatement papers.” 

It was quiet between them. Charles must have interrupted him in the middle of something, for the General seemed to be distracted, eyes glossed over in thought. He once again resisted the urge to be offended at the actions; he was not to be tossed aside, especially after his captivity. 

“Here they are.” 

Charles had not noticed the documents placed in front of him,  _ especially  _ not what had been written on the first line. 

“Sir,” He picked up the paper and pulled it closer to fully inspect Washington’s scrawl on the top of the parchment. “Is this true?” 

“Yes, Lee.” He seemed to sigh, as if it was a stupid question. 

“You are now officially instituted as my second in command of these Continental forces. Much of your duties will stay the same, however, you will have your own headquarters on the other side of camp, where the other general’s reside. I will have my sentries escort you there. You should have everything you need within your own personal quarters,” Washington paused, looking at Charles’ form. “Including a change in dress.” 

“ _ Sir, _ ” Charles touched the new command title under his fingertip, unable to say much else. “I am honored to accept the post.” 

“I hope we can work well together.” The General gave him a small smile. “Do not disappoint me.” 

-

Alexander immediately felt his face warm in front of the fire that they had just built. 

Night had fallen hours ago, and only then did Alexander and the other aides finish their hut. They still have to build the working hut, for all they had now was a sturdy roof above their heads to sleep. The snow would be off of their bodies, for now. 

But in that moment, nearly Alexander’s entire body was aching due to the riguous work of building their own hut. Hauling the wood so far into camp and actually building the structure had taken such a toll on his body; Alexander was obviously not one for farm work. 

He lifted the small bowl of stew to his lips, thankful that it was still cold. 

“Alexander?” John asked from his right, tapping his shoulders. “Help me fix my cot within the hut.”    
  
He shot his friend a confused look. Something within John’s eyes told him to follow anyway, which he reluctantly obeyed, putting down his stew and giving a small wave to Lafayette, busy engaged in conversation with Tilghman. He noticed that the Frenchman was actually attempting to continue learning English by naming random things throughout camp. 

He followed John through the cloth covering the entrance to the hut, already equipped with beds stacked on top of each other, held up by wooden frames. Alexander had chosen the bottom cot, afraid that in the middle of the night he might suddenly fall on top of whoever was sleeping below him. 

“You need to see Washington.” John said, blunt. 

“What?” 

“I know you heard me.”    
  
“He hasn’t requested me.” Alexander thought out loud. “He is busy, he is feeling  _ guilty,  _ I haven’t talked to him in  _ months _ -” 

“He promoted Charles Lee to second in command.” 

Immediately, Alexander stopped talking. 

_ Charles Lee?  _ The name had rung a small bell at the back of Alexander’s brain; he was the man being held captive in New York, was he not? Why would he be promoted to second in command? 

“He has no merit?” He asked, meaning to be a statement. Alexander had to make sure; he didn’t even know the man that they were talking about in question. 

“He does not.” John ran his hand through his hair, currently out of a ribbon. “I would have thought he would promote Greene, not  _ Lee  _ of all people.” 

Alexander bit his lip. He would have to talk to George about it; but then stopped. 

“I cannot give him advice on what he should do with his army.”    
  
“Alex-” 

“No, John.” He sighed, turning away from his friend. “I have not yet earned the trust of this army, I cannot just tell George what he should and should not do.” 

“What of Morristown?” John asked, turning somber. “What of your efforts to increase our supplies?” 

“Have you forgotten about what happened after that, John?” Alexander tried his best not to remember the weeks he had spent in Reed’s hands. “I was  _ captured,  _ taken away from him, because I was a threat to his authority.” 

“And yet, you came back, and you are safe here. Reed is gone.” 

Alexander closed his eyes and tried to accept that fact. 

“You should at least  _ try,  _ Alex. He listens to you, and this is a very bad idea, considering how much the army has changed in the time that Lee has been in captivity.” John paused, and Alexander turned to him. “Use his love for you to make him listen. You have done it before.” 

“What is this, a covert operation?” He joked to John. “Spies are punished by hanging, John.” 

“That is if they are on the wrong side. You both are fighting for the same thing.” 

_ I didn’t used to,  _ he thought, refraining to speak the thought out loud. 

“Do you need me to walk you there?” His fellow aide asked. 

“I can make it on my own.” 

John only nodded and Alexander turned a final time to leave the hut. 

Lafayette and Tilghman paid no mind to him walking past the small fire, still discussing the English terms around them. The Frenchman seemed to be stuck on pronouncing the word ‘encampment’ just as Alexander got out of earshot, walking towards the brick house that he knew housed his lover. 

It came into view in the distance, the moon half full as it loomed high over him, slightly illuminating the path to the brick structure. The lights within the house could be seen cascading on to the snow outside, where Alexander saw sentries guarding the entrance. 

Once he reached them, they stopped him at the front door. 

“Hamilton, his aide, here to see General Washington.” He said in a flat tone. 

“The British turncoat?” The taller of the two guards asked, looking down at Alexander as if he was an insect. 

“I am loyal to the revolutionary cause.” The more he said the phrase, the less it started to mean to him. “Let me through.” 

The sentries shared a glance but let him through anyway, hesitantly moving to the side and letting Alexander reach for the door himself, opening it and letting the warm air from inside the house engulf him. 

It was only then did Alexander realize he had no idea where Washington was staying within the house. 

No one could be seen within the front hall, illuminated by candles in the hallway, and the two doors on either side of him were closed. He hesitantly made his way to the sitting room, with green chairs and a fireplace still ignited. No one could be seen within this room as well. 

“Hello?” 

Alexander turned around, seeing a girl who could not have been older than sixteen come out from behind a corner; he assumed she must have come from the kitchen due to her apron draping her frame, covered in a white powder. 

“Uh,” He paused, unable to speak. “I am here to see General Washington. It has occurred to me that I do not know which room he is in.” 

“He is in the back of the house, second door on the right of that hallway there.” The girl said in a thick English accent; she pointed to the hallway leading to the back of the house. “That is his office. If he isn’t there, then I suggest the first door on the right, that is his personal quarters.”

“Thank you, miss.” He bowed his head for a moment before continuing on to where George was. 

“I did not know he was expecting visitors this late.” She called out after him, just before he could head down the hallway. 

“I just need to speak with him.” He faces her fully, now noticing the small details on her body. Her dress was a dark grey, covered with a lighter shade of an apron, covered in what he guessed could be flour. Her hair was tied back, a few strands framing her face. She seemed tired. 

“He gets a lot of men here to see him.” 

“He is the General, after all.” Hamilton noted. 

_ The General that I happen to be in love with.  _

“I understand that, sir.” She moved to pull more hair behind her ear. “It is quite troublesome in our once peaceful home.” 

_ That is why she seems apprehensive,  _ Alexander mused within himself. 

“I will not take too long, so you and your family may rest.” He said, continuing to walk down the hallway without bidding her goodbye. He would have to apologize later. 

He reached the second door, right where the girl said it would be, took a deep breath, two, three, and knocked on the door. 

Silence. 

Alexander tried again, louder this time. 

“Sir? It’s Hamilton.” He bit back the slightly bitter taste in his mouth at using his last name, but remembered that they were in a public place, so formalities must be used if they were to stay alive. 

There still wasn’t an answer. 

Alexander looked down at his feet, to where the edge of the door met the wooden planks below it, and saw the flickering light of a fireplace under the frame. Someone was still in there. 

Despite his better judgment, Alexander twisted the knob on the office door, and opened it, not expecting the sight he was about to see. 

His eyes first drifted to the seemingly enormous desk in front of him, displayed in the back of the room, and the sleeping form in front of it. George, hunched over his desk, had his head and arms covering most of the expanse of the surface. Documents were splayed under his face, sticking to his brow as his eyes were closed in deep sleep. 

Alexander immediately softened his stature. George was asleep on his desk. 

It seemed almost adorable, really. 

He closed the office door behind him as softly as he could, trying not to awake the sleeping General. He padded his feet over to the desk, getting a closer look at George’s resting face. 

Alexander had always admired how his lover looked when asleep. He seemed younger, more full of life, less burdened by the hardships of war. He had known something of the French and Indian war, and how George had fought for the British on that side, but yearned to hear more of that story. 

Something told Alexander that George did not wish to relive the events of his youth. He had enough to deal with in the present, or what would eventually be the future. 

_ I am running out of time. No, we are running out of time.  _

He gently shook George’s shoulder, causing the General to immediately shoot up from his place against the desk, eyes wide. 

“The British?” He gasped, eyes focusing somewhere behind Alexander’s head. 

“Not exactly, George.” He smiled down at the General, who had begun to calm down. “It’s just me.” 

At that statement, George had immediately calmed down, connecting eyes with Alexander and sighing in relief. 

“I must have fallen asleep.” 

“That much is true.” He laughed at his lover, just now noticing the side of George’s face. “It seems you have dried ink on your cheek.” 

George instinctively reached up to brush his own cheek, before Alexander took his hand away. He licked his entire thumb, sticking it in his mouth, and pulled it out, brushing it along George’s cheek. It seemed to calm the older man, his eyes shutting in content of his boy cleaning the ink off of his skin. 

“I always admired your handwriting.” He said, getting the last bit out from under George’s ear. 

“It took years to perfect.” The General’s eyes were still closed. “I remember my hands feeling as if they would snap in half.” 

“I never had such a problem.” Alexander decided to lean forward and kiss the now clean cheek. “I was always perfect.”

“That you are, my boy.” 

He kissed George’s lips this time, slowly sinking into the feeling of having the older man so close once more. His lips were warm against his; a rare occurrence in these cold months. 

He pulled away all too soon. 

“We need to discuss a few things.” Was all he offered in a reason to him being here. 

“Alexander, I am incredibly tired-” 

“You did not ask for me.” 

George’s eyes seemed to become distant after that statement. He seemed to not want to answer the question. 

“I was busy, Alexander.” 

“I know but-” His voice caught in his throat, offering no explanation of his own. 

_ I was worried you did not want me. I was afraid we had run out of time. I was hurting for you.  _

“These past few months have been incredibly hard on you, George. I know you blame yourself for most of the failures that the army has endured.” 

“It is my fault.” George looked off to the side, disconnecting his eyes from Alexander’s gaze. “Sending those men into battles they could not handle. Losing Philadelphia. Seeing my own horse get shot out from under me. Hell, seeing our dear  _ Lafayette  _ get shot, those were my decisions. I am the only one to blame.”   
  
“Then who is to blame for promoting the least qualified man within this camp into second in command?” 

George darted his eyes back to Alexander, more alert than they had been just moments ago, sleep completely leaving his eyes. 

“You came here to talk about Charles Lee.” It was more of a statement than a question, and the way it was spoken made Alexander’s skin crawl with unspoken words. George’s demeanor seemed to say,  _ This is not your issue to worry about,  _ and  _ do not question my choices when I am the one in charge.  _

“It wasn’t the wisest decision, George.” 

“I needed someone I could trust.” The General’s hand came up to brush the side of Alexander’s cheek, slowly dragging the pad of his finger down and on to his jawline. “Originally, it would have been Reed, but we both know how disastrous that would have been for us.” 

“And Greene could not fill that post?” He tried his best to keep his voice calm as George’s fingers kept tracing the lines of his face in the fireplace light. “Do you not trust him enough?” 

“He is not the senior ranking officer, not anymore. Since I had gotten the papers of Lee’s release from New York, he has seniority over Greene, and that makes him able to be appointed. I thought you would have known basic military promotion status, given your time in the Royal Army.” 

Alexander almost recoiled back out of the touch that had held his attention for so long. That had been uncalled for, yes, but he stayed near George anyway, now getting used to small reminders of his time away from the revolutionary. 

“That is not nearly the point, George, and I am afraid you know that.” 

“I do.” George sighed, closing his eyes. “I  _ had  _ to do something, Alexander. Congress will not let me rest until this is a proper army, and yet, I cannot ever seem to do enough. It is merely a power play to get us through the bureaucratic side of war.” 

“That seems like foul play.” 

“It is war, my boy.” George stopped tracing Alexander’s jawline, and instead stretched upwards so that he could kiss the younger man’s brow line. “It will be over soon, if all goes well on the French’s part.” 

Alexander felt his heart stop in his chest.  _ The fucking French,  _ he thought mentally slapping his forehead in remembrance. They should hopefully join the war soon, on their behalf, once and for all. 

But, then again, that meant that the war would end soon, and George would be gone from his life. 

The pocket watched seemed to be heavy within his breeches.  _ We are running out of time.  _

“You should get some rest, George.” He says, pushing the thought of time to the back of his head faster than he could retreat from the British forces. 

“It seems I should.” 

Alexander leaned backwards, out of George’s personal space and now towards the bookshelf behind him, settling his weight against the shelf. The General lifted his weight off of the chair, rolling his shoulders and neck to get rid of the straining muscles that must have plagued him from his small nap. He seemed to be older, in that moment, than Alexander usually saw him. 

He embraced the General. 

He hadn’t known what came over him until his arms were already along George’s side, and his face against the older man’s chest, smelling the musk of the day’s work. It was warm, within George’s arms, and for once, Alexander couldn’t imagine a better place to be. 

He would address the problem of the end of the war later. For now, he was safe, within George’s arms. 

-

Aaron Burr was an observant man. 

He saw death everywhere around him. Even since he was a child, his family dropping like flies around him, Aaron got used to the concept of death consistently in his life. His father and mother, may they rest in peace, would have wanted it that way. 

So when he had seen the men buried after they had perished within his first week in the Valley Forge encampment, taken away in huge cloth sheets and carried by other soldiers who had seemed indifferent to the death around them and dragging the clothed bodies through the dead of night, Aaron was not particularly surprised. 

The encampment was a horrible place, to say the least. There were not enough medical staff, to begin with, causing men with preventable diseases to perish quickly in the night. The lack of clothes had been another problem, men sitting around without blankets or simple sweaters to hold themselves together in the harsh cold. The bitter air nipped at their fingers and toes, causing some men to go almost insane to cut them off, and without the warmth in the extremities of their limbs, the blood simply would not clot properly, causing men to profusely bleed or not bleed at all. Ripped pieces of cloth would be wrapped around the wounds, and would cause a ramped round of infection. Men often died of that as well. 

What did it matter, if they died? Aaron did not know the men around him, he was not friends with any of them, so why did it matter that at every turn he seemed to take, men would drop dead, like his own family? 

And that is how he found himself, smoking a simple pipe in an attempt to keep the inside of his chest warm, leaning against a tree and watching more soldiers that he did not know bury other men who had died that he did not care about. 

War had its hardships. Death would certainly be one of them. 

The men in front of him struggled to carry the weight of the fallen soldier, dumping one of the body bags on to the snow without much haste. 

Aaron did not care about that either. The body was already dead, it should not matter how it is treated after the fact. 

The men attempted to dig the snow aside for the makeshift graves outside of camp. Those graves were only meant for the men who had no family on record to send the body back to, so they are buried here, outside of the confines of camp, scattered in places where the snow was shallow and the dirt was easy to dig up for a human body to rest in. 

Those soldiers were like him. Alone in this war. 

He took another deep breath of the pipe. 

“Aaron Burr?” A man suddenly materialized at his side, nearly scaring him half to death. He almost dropped his pipe in the snow before he caught it with his right hand, letting the smoke exhale into the air. 

“Yes?” He turned to a mere aide, one whom he did not seem to recognize, but then again, it was dark in the night. 

“I am an aide to second in command Charles Lee. He has requested to see you.” 

The men held out a piece of paper, barely noticeable in the gloom of night, only illuminated only by a nearby torch that the men were using to bury the body, still attempting to break through the ice on top of the dirt. 

He opened the parchment and squinted. Indeed, it was Charles Lee, summoning him to his own command tent on the other side of camp. 

_ No time like the present _ , he mused to himself. 

He folded the piece of parchment into his breast pocket, already walking towards Lee’s headquarters, not paying any mind to the messenger who had given him the order. The man did not follow; staying behind to watch the burial of the random soldier. Aaron wondered if he actually cared. 

The walk to Lee’s tent was fast, Aaron walking at a brisk pace to rid himself of the cold in the quickest way possible. His legs were stiff and his lungs ached, but the fast walking helped him gather his senses. 

No men bothered to stop and talk to him. Aaron was used to the silence from his peers. He liked to take note of them in his private mind, anyway. 

Soon, his feet eventually found the small hut that Lee was stationed in for the past week, since he had been granted entrance to the camp. It had torches on each side of the flimsy wooden door granting entrance inside, burning bright in the darkness around him. The snow was cleared in front of the door, giving the impression that the door had been opened frequently during the day. 

“Lee?” He called out, experimentally knocking on the door. 

“Who is it?” 

“Aaron Burr, sir.” 

A slight pause. 

“Come in.” 

Aaron reached to open the door by the hastily put in metal bar, screwed in with scarce nails that he had yet to see on any other huts. Most, including his own, had a small piece of blanket or cloth covering the entrance to act as a door. He would not admit to anyone out loud that he was jealous of Lee’s headquarters already, and he yet to step inside the structure. 

The warmth of a few candles enveloped his frame like a blanket. On the far right side of the hut, there sat Charles Lee himself, his feet resting on the empty desk in front of him, holding up a piece of paper to the light of a candle. 

“Ah, Aaron Burr, sir!” He bellowed, not bothering to move from his position. Aaron made no move to step forward and attempt to shake the man’s hand; he knew he would get none in return. 

“You called me here?” He decided to ask instead, weight shifting from one leg to the other. 

“Yes, I must ask a couple of questions from you, since I am now second in command.” 

“I am at your service, sir.” 

“Good!” Lee set the paper down but did not move from his spot behind the desk. “Now, do you know of a young aide by the name of Alexander Hamilton?” 

Aaron hesitantly nodded, not sure where the conversation was going. 

“Ah, good man. I have heard many rumors from when I was in captivity, and on my journey here, but one seems to stick out to me about the young man. He seemed to have been a British redcoat, at the start of the war. Is this true?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Have you talked to him about it? Can you confirm?” Lee asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very well. I have also heard that he influences the actions of the General quite well.” 

“He has, in the past.” Aaron pointed out. “In Morristown, when he was in captivity, he was the man who suggested to Washington to send over an aide from Congress to see the true nature of our army.” 

“He is a smart young lad,” Lee rubbed his face, deep in thought. “However, that would be seen as problematic from a strategic standpoint, would it not?” 

Aaron found himself nodding again, unable to speak. He felt something was off with Lee, but could not put his finger on what. 

“Then, since you know the young man, I have a proposition for you.” The ranking major stood from his seat for the first time, lifting the parchment paper that he had been reading earlier and walking it over to Aaron. “I assure you, you will be handsomely compensated for your efforts, if you please me.” 

Lee held out the parchment, which Aaron took with hesitant hands. He immediately saw what he held in his hands from a letter, and Aaron let his eyes drift downward to look at who the sender could have been. 

Joseph Reed. 

-

_ Alexander took a deep breath in, savoring the salty scent of the vast expanse of the sea in front of him. The wind was extreme today, for his hair was being whipped behind him at an almost excruciating amount, surely to be in tangles later when he went below deck to sleep for the night.  _

_ But for now, with clouds rolling above him, sun high in the sky and beating its rays down upon him, and the waves relatively calm for an Atlantic voyage, he felt okay with that fact. He would deal with it later.  _

_ For the time being, he felt free.  _

_ “I somehow knew you would be up here.” Edward materialized at his side, seemingly out of nowhere, but Alexander did not turn to face his friend, a great deal older than him.  _

_ “I want to be the first to see land.”  _

_ “Of course you want to be.”  _

_ Edward maneuvered himself so he could stand beside Alexander, leaning his full weight on the wooden rail, much like he himself was, staring at the horizon filled with nothing but ocean. He could only dream of what awaited him in America. _

_ “You’re really leaving, aren’t you?” Edward asked, sighing into the wind.  _

_ “I want to fight for my country. My service ended a couple of months ago, I cannot be stuck on this ship forever.” Alexander moved a lock of hair from his eyes that was obstructing the view. “I am not like you.”  _

_ “But I have seen the world, Alex.”  _

_ “And yet, I do not dream of doing so stuck under the deck writing about the captain’s trading habits.”  _

_ A comfortable silence settled between the two. Alexander was already wearing the army’s uniform, his brand new vibrant red coat standing out from the other sailors on the ship. The golden buttons were perfectly polished, and the seams were held tightly together, not even a fray visible to the naked eye.  _

_ “You will do great things, one day.” Edward could not seem to look away from the horizon either. “Soon, the revolution will end, and you will live many years beyond that.”  _

_ “How do you know?” Alexander asked.  _

_ “I have a feeling. You will also be on the winning side.”  _

_ “Which side will win?” He wondered out loud, but was not answered. He turned, only to see that Edward was no longer at his side.  _

_ In fact, no one was on the ship around him. The deck was absolutely empty. The wheel standing on top of the highest level of the deck seemed to be steering itself.  _

_ A chill ran down Alexander’s spine as he turned towards the front of the ship again.  _

_ Enormous, black storm clouds suddenly appeared out of nowhere above him, and began to swirl. They collided together, mashing their shapes to form one big spiral of clouds where it seemed to block the sun entirely, the air around him turning sour and cold.  _

_ The wind picked up even more. Alexander felt like he couldn’t breathe with the new smell that appeared with surprise; it felt like his lungs were on fire with the sudden need to breathe anything else. He half considered jumping into the water just to feel what the salt water would feel like in his lungs.  _

_ The wind finally blew a large gust and blew Alexander to the wooden deck, knocking the air from his lungs. He gasped in a deep breath- _

Alexander shot up from his bed, taking in a large gasp of air, much like his dream. 

At the same time, two things happened. 

The first was his arm, out of its own accord, suddenly shooting out to his side and hitting the post that held up the stack of cots together, making a loud  _ thud _ . 

The second, was John above him, suddenly shooting up out of his cot as well, and hitting his head along the ceiling of the hut. 

“Fuck!”

Alexander rubbed his eyes roughly, willing the fuzziness of his dream to go away. 

“Fuck?” Lafayette wakes up on the other side of the hut, rolling over to look at John and Alexander. 

“What the hell, Alex?” John’s voice was rugged with sleep. “What was that for?” 

“I..” Alexander’s eyes were still wide, trying to remember his dream. From his memories, Edward had never had that conversation with him, on the merchant ship. Edward had been distant towards him when he had found out Alexander was leaving the ship for good, let alone telling him that he would do great things. 

_ You will also be on the winning side.  _ What the hell did that mean?

“Alexander?” John moved his head over the side of his upper cot, looking down on him as he stared at the wall. His hand had not moved from the cot post holding up John. 

“I just had a dream.” He moved his hand, finally, threading it through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. 

“Well,” Lafayette got up from his bed, stretching his arms far beyond his head. “It seems we might as well be up.” 

“I’m sorry I woke you two.” Alexander apologized. 

John hopped down from his cot, doing the same as Lafayette and grabbing his coat from a nearby night table. 

“It is alright. We have work to do this morning, anyway.” 

Almost as if the previous actions never happened, the trio began to get ready for the day, getting dressed in their plain uniforms used for daily work and cleansing themselves of what had happened. As Alexander buttoned up his overcoat, attempting to keep himself warm from the coldness seeping in from outside, he tried to decipher the dream. 

The storm had been obvious. When the hurricane hit his hometown, it had been disastrous for his family at the time. What bothered him was the fact that he had not thought of the storm in years. Hell, even Edward had slipped his mind recently. 

So why had he suddenly started dreaming of them again? 

Alexander prayed he would not start dreaming of his lost brother. He had no idea how much more of his past he could take before he would start to go mental. 

As he emerged from the hut, John and Lafayette still inside, he was immediately met by the face of Aaron Burr in front of him, seemingly in the middle of debating whether or not he should enter the hut or not. 

“Burr?” He asked, confused on why he had happened to stumble across him so early in the morning. 

“Hamilton.” 

He stared at Burr for a moment, taking in his appearance. He seemed to have darker circles under his eyes than Alexander had previously noticed, and even his clothes seemed hastily put together, much as if he had awoken late and had to awaken faster than he would have liked. 

“Good eve of Christmas.” Was all Burr offered, sticking out his hand.

_ Oh, right, it is the 24th,  _ Alexander thought to himself. He made the active decision to not shake Burr’s hand. The man in front of him set his arm down with a scowl. 

“Is there something you need?” He asked instead. 

“On the Lord’s eve? Why, only a walk around camp, with you, so we could get to know each other better.” 

Alexander raised his brow. Why would Burr, of all people,  _ Aaron Burr,  _ want to get to know him better? On Christmas eve, nonetheless? 

“Why do you assume I have no other work to do?” 

“Washington hasn’t commissioned you or the other aides to do any work.” Burr gave him a smirk. “Not until the new year, that is.” 

Alexander closed his mouth after unable to come up with a witty response. Even though George had not told him outright that he would have no work until the new year, he had told John that fact, who relayed it to Alexander over dinner one night. It was a weird adjustment, from the months of long campaign work, but the past few days had been easier to adjust to common life; Alexander had recently helped in chopping wood down for the building of new huts. His most recent project had been waiting; the building of a new medical bay area near the far side of camp. 

“I suppose we can walk to the new med hut.” He offered as a truce. “That is where I have been spending my time recently, with John and Lafayette.” 

“I have seen you work.” Burr started to make his way to the south side, Alexander following closely behind at a slow pace. “Now, why would an aide, supposedly Washington’s  _ best, _ be chopping wood for the enemy?” 

  
  
Alexander seethed in anger for a moment. 

“I will reiterate this once more to you, Burr, sir, I am no longer the enemy within this camp. I would wish to help in any way I possibly can.” 

“I assume I will be hearing that until the end of the war.” Burr smirked, knowing that he was getting under Alexander’s skin. Any more jabs at his pride and he would knock the other guy out completely, soon. 

“You very well might.” 

The two of them walked past the newer huts from Greene’s brigade, the men not emerging from their cots just yet, the sun only just now breaking the horizon and streaming its rays across the encampment. It was still quite early, which begged a question on Alexander’s mind. 

“Why are you awake this early? I have not seen you around camp that much.” 

“I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night. It was a bit on the cold side, if I may say so myself.” 

So Alexander had been right. Burr had trouble sleeping, hence the reason why he had looked so disheveled when he had come to his hut that morning. 

They appeared in front of the half built med hut. So far, only the frames had been put up, a shallow hull of what would be a four room large house, keeping safe the soldiers who are sick or injured. In the process of making the hut, soldiers had hurt themselves, ironically; John had to sew together a severed finger earlier that week when an unfortunate accident involving an axe took place in front of him. 

“Well, I should find myself going.” Burr looked upon the hut, still in progress, and nodded towards him. “I do hope that the General does find a use for you soon.” 

“And why would that be?” Alexander raised his eyebrow. 

“Because, I assume if he doesn’t, he would be pressured to let you go, and return you right into Howe’s hands.” 

And just as he had appeared in front of Alexander that morning, Burr turned on his back heel, walking away towards the east side of camp, in the direction of the burning sunlight just starting to peak over the trees. 

_ What could that possibly mean?  _ Alexander thought as he shook his head. Walking over to the small tool shed made up by the other soldiers in days previous, he sifted through the piles of wood to find a spare axe. 

George would never willingly let him go could he? Sure, it would be pressured upon him by Congress, and he had mentioned how hard war is with the bureaucracy breathing down his neck on every waking moment, but he couldn’t just  _ force  _ Alexander to leave camp, could he? 

To go back in the hands of Howe? It would mean Alexander would be hanged. Decapitated. His insides spilled in front of him into a fire for an audience to see his tretury. His own head stuck on a pike. 

Alexander finally found an axe, sitting in the back of the shed. He shivered as his hands gripped the handle. 

George wouldn’t let him go, no matter what Congress says. He loved him. George was loyal, and truthful towards him, at least so far. He may have promoted Lee for the greater cause that Alexander has yet to understand, but deep down, he knew that George would not let Howe take him back and kill him in front of the entire British army. 

He took a nearby log from outside the shed and set it on the chopping bench near the forming med hut. 

Alexander raised the axe high in the air, and brought it down with all of his strength. 

George would not leave him. 

-

He was still rustling through his things when the sun decided to set for the day, causing George to light a candle and ignite the small fireplace within his study. It had been cold the entire day, but he paid no mind, for he wanted to make tonight as special as he could. 

It was the eve of Christmas, after all. 

As a child, before his father had died, he had celebrated the holiday every year with both of his parents and siblings. However, after his father did pass, his mother had grown less and less fond of spending time with the entire family. It hadn’t hurt him until he became an adult. 

He wondered if Alexander had ever spent time with his family like he did, when he was a boy. George intended to find out, over the course of the finest dinner he could scrounge up within the encampment. It should be delivered later, but there may be a slight problem before the sentry arrives with their food. 

He could not find any silverware, or any plate for that matter, from his personal collection. Only a small spoon that he remembered taking from Mount Vernon years ago. 

He lifted another crate out from under his desk, praying that it would hold at least a wooden block that they may put their warm food on, but as he set aside journal after journal, including some of his private collection of books, George found nothing of the sort. 

Maybe he could use one of the journals from his time in Barbados to cushion the food. He hated reading those words in 1751; he could even feel the scars along his side and face from when he had contracted smallpox. 

George did not think of his brother as he decided to set the journal to the side. 

“Uh, Mr. Washington?” A woman’s voice sounded from the open doorway. 

He turned to see the teenage girl who lived within the house standing there, her pink dress bouncing the flickers of light off of the cloth. Her hair was still done up, the girl must have been just returning from a day on the town. 

“Yes?” He asked, hesitantly, looking at her. 

“Would you require any assistance?” 

The girl’s hands were nervously fiddling with each other as she stepped fully in the room. Her eyes shifted, causing locks of hair to shift along her shoulders where her dress draped her shoulders. George would have been blind if he did not think she was beautiful.

“I seem to have...misplaced my silverware.” He explained calmly, not bothering to ask if he could use the family’s set. He did not want to feel the need to impose, since the family had done so much already for them. 

“I see.” She offered. She started to drift her eyes to him, grazing his entire frame with shifty glances and pauses among parts of his body. 

George could see where her intentions lie. 

“Ma’am, I am sure you have the best of intentions,” George took a small step back, emphasizing his point. “But I am m-married.” 

_ Dammit,  _ he swore within himself. He hated throwing that around on the poor girl, but Alexander had deserved better than for him to play into the intentions of a farm girl who he had no interest in. 

The girl’s face immediately changed into a deep shade of red, and she tried her best to hide her face within her stray locks of hair; which, if George were to say, was not very effective. 

“I am terribly sorry, it is just-” 

“Washington, sir.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief at Alexander’s voice. He turned towards the doorway, seeing the face of his boy looking back at him, and immediately felt the tension deep rooted in his neck soften into a dull ache. 

The girl in front of him seemed to be slightly terrified of being caught, however, and suddenly jerked backwards away from George, face getting more redder with each passing moment. 

“I-I will get that silverware for you, Mr. Washington.” 

Alexander was nearly toppled over in the flurry of pink that was the girl running out of the room as quickly as she could, making George laugh under his breath to himself. 

“What was that all about?” Alexander must have felt the same, because when he had spoken his breath was light. 

“I believe she may have fancied me. It would not be the first time that women have felt this way.” George smiled and rounded his desk, sighing down as he looked at his hands. “As much as I would like to have this conversation, I believe I did call you here for a reason.” 

Alexander’s face suddenly fell. 

“Oh, God, you really are sending me back to Howe.” 

“What?” George jerked his head back up, eyebrows raised. “What the  _ hell  _ gave you that idea?” 

His boy must have realized his mistake, because he then seemed to curl into himself, raising his hands up to his face and hiding much like the girl had done before. 

“Alexander.” he took a step forward, reaching for the boy’s face, taking it into his hands and bringing it to his own so their foreheads could graze each other. “I am not sure where you could have heard that, but whoever told you so, they are incredibly wrong. I love you, I am here to protect you, and I will not let you become part of Howe’s master plan to win the war.” 

“Aren’t I yours?”

George had no time to respond before he heard the frantic footsteps of the girl from earlier begin to graze the hallway, causing him to reluctantly pull back from Alexander’s face. The boy himself seemed to be upset that his General took a full step back, so they would not be discovered. 

She hurried in and set the plates off to the side without another word, not bothering to address George directly. She was not a soldier, so he was not particularly offended by the action. The plates, silverware and glasses made a small clatter noise as she rushed out of the room, leaving them alone once again. 

“Come,” George held out his hand for Alexander to take. “Let us go to my bedroom. I have dinner arranged for us.” 

Alexander could only weakly nod as he took his General’s hand, and they made their way to his private bed chambers. Before he left the office, which he was sure to return to later, he made sure to grab the plates with his free hand, and lead his boy to the chamber. 

The door was already cracked open, which Alexander opened. His room was fairly basic, most of his personal things being within his office. His bed was perfectly made, and there in the middle of the room, was a wooden crafted table which had a basket set upon it. 

_ The food,  _ George pieced together within his mind as he closed the door behind them. He prayed it was still hot. 

“Here,” He held out some of the plates to Alexander. “May you set your own plate?” 

“Yes.” Alexander grabbed his half of the silverware and sat on the table, arranging his plate correctly as if he would within a ball. 

“Where did you learn to properly set a table?” He inquired, opening the basket, inspecting the contents. 

“I learned from a crew-mate on the merchant ship I was indentured to.” Alexander answered and looked to George. “Where did you?” 

“Lawrence.” 

George took the package out of the basket. Inside the wrapped cloth, which was still warm within his hands, thank God, were two thick slices of the best beef that George could find reasonably within the township nearby. He unwrapped the cloth, setting a piece of it in the middle of Alexander’s plate, turning to the greens and fruits in the bottom of the basket. 

“Would now be a proper time to ask about Lawrence?” Alexander asked, waiting for his share of the rest of the food. 

“In a moment. I have one more surprise for you.” 

After portioning out the rest of the meal between the two of them, he moved towards his feather bed, where he had a small box hidden under the frame. Taking it out and opening it, George smiled to himself. 

“Wine from Mount Vernon. I figured it would pair well with the beef.” 

When he stood up to walk back to the table, he popped the cork with ease, pouring it into Alexander’s glass. 

“What is the reason for this?” He asked, George finally sitting in his own chair and filling his own glass with the homemade wine. 

“I know it is not much,” George feigned a laugh. “But I used to celebrate the eve and the day of Christmas with my family, when I was a boy. I wanted to share that with you, if I was able, and thankfully there was a recent shipment of prime beef in the township earlier this week. I had it procured for us to share.” 

Alexander smiled and looked up from his food, raising the wine glass. George raised his own. 

“I love you.” Alexander murmured, looking to George with fire in his eyes. He himself loved that fire, always searching for the next thing to do. 

“And I, you.” 

They raised their glasses and clinked them together before taking a sip. The liquid rushed into his mouth, with George savoring the taste. It somehow reminded him of the fields of Mount Vernon, where the dirt would be fertile for tobacco in the spring, ready to be reaped and sown in the fall. It reminded him of the grueling hot summer days he had spent as a boy, plowing the fields with a new technique that Lawrence had taught him only the summer before. It reminded him of the winter days, spent herding the cattle into the barn, trying his best to stay warm within the Virginia cold. 

But most importantly, it reminded him of home. 

Something he hoped to share with Alexander, one day. 

“The only difference between now and Morristown is that I am now in bondage.” Alexander started to feed himself, shoving the steak bits into his mouth. 

“I would beg to differ, but I am afraid you are correct.” 

They ate their meal in silence at first, just filling their stomachs with the food. George relished being the General at times, because he could request food such as this and get it almost immediately. He tended not to stray from the normal diet of a regular foot soldier, however. It would be unfair to the men risking their entire lives while George sat behind a desk and rote orders. He already felt bad enough for taking up the entire house on his own. 

“So,” Alexander began after finishing his meat, now poking around the greens on his plate. “I am intrigued to find out more about Lawrence.” 

“Right.” George set down his fork. 

“He was my half brother, if I must correct you. We shared the same father. He was his oldest son, first in line to inherit Mount Vernon, and our father’s pride and joy. I can recall all the wonderful times that my father had spent with Lawrence, rather than me, because I was only his second son, from a second wife. When I began to understand why he was favored, I blamed our father, and I was incredibly jealous of just how much power that Lawrence wielded within the family. 

“When our father did die, he took over as the parental figure to me, teaching me how to be a proper man. He gave me books to read, along with many insights on how to run the plantation. He owned Mount Vernon at the time, which if it were in anyone else’s hands, I would not have allowed myself the luxury of calling that plot of land my home. 

“As I grew older, becoming a man in my own retrospect, I wanted to emulate him in any way I could. He did serve in the British military, in some war that I cannot remember, I was far too young to retain any of the important details. But, I do remember the day that he returned from Jamaica, in that red army uniform. I wanted to be exactly like him, fighting for his country and king, far less intense than the current king had been towards these colonies. 

“When he got sick, the white plague, I remember being terrified. I was only nineteen, just beginning to find my way in the world. We traveled to Barbados together, where I watched him sit in a bed, unable to breathe. We had originally hoped that the humidity would clear up his cough, but it was no use. 

“I was at his side, when he passed. Mount Vernon became a dark place for me, after he had died in that bed when we returned to Virginia. I remember throwing the bed away before I began to pursue the dream that I would honor him. I applied to fight in the French and Indian war, to honor his legacy that he bestowed in me.” 

After the story was done, George could feel tears in his eyes. He continued to speak, trying his best to keep his voice even. 

“I sometimes wonder how he would feel, if he saw me now. Going against the order of the king and fighting for the birth of this new nation. I wish he could see the decisions I could have made, and maybe even fight alongside me. He always knew what to do.” 

Now that the story had been properly told, George did have to wipe his face with the cloth of his sleeve, a stray tear running down his cheek. 

“George.” Alexander’s voice was as soft as the mane of a horse. The boy in front of him reached forward, grabbing George’s hand and rubbing the skin in between his fingers. 

“I am so, incredibly and deeply sorry for your loss.” 

George held back more tears as he but the facade of a strong General back upon his face. He looked down at their conjoined hands, feeling a calmness wash over him. It brought him back to the moment, here within Valley Forge, in the harsh cold instead of the blistering heat of Barbados, eating dinner on Christmas eve with Alexander. 

“May I tell you of my brother?” Alexander asked, to which George looked up and could only nod, hoping that it was not a sad story such as his was. 

“His name was James.” Alexander started, still holding George’s hand. “He is my older brother, named after my father. We were bastards, which was hard enough to get through life. Even worse, our father left us, claiming she was a whore when he had found out she was out of wedlock. 

“My mother did too. We all had yellow fever, and James mostly took care of her while I stayed by her bedside, sick as she was. When she took her last breath, I remember James holding me back from her, while I screamed and kicked, begging for someone to tell me that she was not dead. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. 

“You see, when my father had left us, he left a lot of debt in my mother’s name. And, when she died, she hadn’t paid it all off, so it was inherited to our names once we both recovered from the fever. We were only in our early years, not even adults, so we had no possible way to pay the debt. 

“We were sold as indentured servants to merchant ships. We were not old enough to be inscripted in the royal army just yet, so we were bought until we were old enough to leave those ships. I happened to be the first one bought, and I left the island only days after I got the commission. The last time I saw James was on the bow of that boat that took me away, where I served until I was old enough to enlist in the royal army.” 

George squeezed Alexander’s hand. 

“Have you seen him since then?” He carefully asked, trying not to press too far. 

“I have tried to find valid leads on his location, all seem to be dead ends.” 

George traced the nail bed of Alexander’s thumb. 

“I am sorry for your loss as well, my dear Alexander.” 

“It is nice in a way, though,” the boy in front of him smiled. “If it wasn’t for the actions of our past, then I would have never met you, or you I.” 

George could not take that sentence within his mind. He leaned forward, thankful that the table was small enough to reach Alexander in front of him, and kissed the boy. 

His lips still tasted of the Mount Vernon wine, and George had never wanted to taste more of the sweet liquid. He traced Alexander’s lips with his tongue, slowly at first, feeling the creases in the wine stained tissue and the scabs along the corners of his mouth. George brought his hand up to Alexander’s hair, pulling it out of the ribbon twisting his fingers in between the locks. It reminded him of Nelson for a fleeting moment. 

No, he would not think of his horse now, of all moments. 

When they both pulled away for air, Alexander was absolutely breathless in a beautiful way, gasping slightly through those pretty red lips that George knew he wanted in other places on his body. 

“Alexander.” He panted, attempting to give himself some sort of self control. “I will not be able to hold back any longer if we continue.” 

There was a pause, before Alexander reached forward and did the same to George’s hair, undoing the ribbon holding his own hair together. 

“I never told you to stop.” 

George took a pause before continuing. They had both opened up for each other, sharing stories that had never been told to other living souls. They were in a private room, the door being able to lock and the blinds drawn closed, with the night still being young, the sun set only an hour ago or so. And the most compelling of the argument, the fact that there was a very comfortable and soft feather cot only feet away from the pair. 

So George made the only rational decision he could in that moment, and stood from the table, making his way over to the door of his chambers. 

He lifted the latch, putting it in place, locking them inside the room, and tucked away in their own small corner of the world. 

George suddenly felt his heartbeat speed up as he took more and more small steps towards Alexander, standing there and looking at him with wide eyes. The pupils were blown wide within his gaze, obviously anxious for what was to be done to him. 

And by God, did George have plans for his boy. 

He traced the buttons holding Alexander’s coat together across his chest and abdomen, taking a moment to admire how polished gold they looked, even during this dire time within the encampment. One by one, as George was now obviously within Alexander’s personal space, he unbuttoned the overcoat with grace, until the bottom button was free. Alexander slipped the cloth off with ease as it fell to the floor. 

“Must I fold it?” He asked, breathlessly looking at the fallen cloth. 

“We have all night, but I am afraid that I cannot bring myself to order you to do so.” George took a strand of Alexander’s hair across his collarbone and brushed it off as he said this, putting it off to the side as he decided to work on taking off the white undershirt that separated him from the expanse of skin that he desperately wanted to taste. 

The over-shirt was quickly shed, Alexander soon becoming desperate to feel more touch than the tips of George’s fingers only grazing the pale skin. Once the shirt was completely off and on the wooden floor boards, next to the overcoat, George nodded towards the bed that had still been made beautiful by the servants around the house. 

Alexander moved the top of the sheet off, folding it onto itself at the foot of the bed. His boy then laid on top of the clean white sheets, hair sprawling across the pillow at the top of the bed. George had never seen something so beautiful. 

“Have you ever done this before, Alexander?” He asked, getting on top of the spacious bed, hovering over the boy and attempting to make not too much noise. 

“I have not.” Alexander looked past the General’s head to the ceiling of the room. “Have you?” 

“Only once, though I must admit, I did not last long.” He admitted before leaning down to kiss Alexander once more. 

The boy’s mouth immediately opened up for George, making him twist his tongue into the boy’s mouth. He traced every tooth, tasting more of the Mount Vernon wine that he wished he could produce more of, just for Alexander to drink and for George himself to taste within the boy’s mouth. They intertwined tongues, and George could feel himself start to harden within his breeches. 

Alexander attempted to lift his hips, attempting to rut himself on something, but George stopped the movement with a powerful hand on his hip bone. 

“Keep still.” He offered as an only explanation, separating himself from Alexander’s intoxicating kiss. 

“Can you hurry on, then?” 

“Always in such a rush.” 

George kissed the corner of his mouth in a quick peck, moving his mouth to the underside of the boy’s jaw. Alexander moved his head back deeper into the pillow, allowing more access to the rest of the expanse that is his own neck. 

At first, George let his lips just graze the skin there, not even kissing it just yet. As he reached Alexander’s pulse point, he fully kissed the skin just above where his heartbeat could be felt. 

Alexander gasped out, wrapping his hands around George’s neck. 

“You sure know what you are doing, for someone who has only done this once.” He told him, breathless. 

“I am just trying to figure out what makes you feel good, Alexander.” 

“Every time you touch me, it feels like my skin is on fire.” The boy gasped once more when George bit down the skin just above his left collarbone. He quickly licked the bite, soothing the pain, but dove back in once more, grazing his teeth in a trail over the expanse of the bone. 

“Please, George,” Alexander sounded so pretty when he begged, he decided to himself. “Take off the rest of our clothes.” 

He did not protest the command. He would gladly follow that order. 

He stood from the bed, shedding his clothes with much less grace than he had done for the boy, waiting for him to undress. George shed his overcoat and draped it across the table, before shedding his undershirt and breeches, along with his shoes and socks. 

Alexander watched his every move, eyes still blown wide in anticipation. Once all of his clothes were removed, the boy moved his gaze over the entire expanse of George’s body, taking in every detail he could take in. 

“Oh my God,” He said when his eyes finally landed on his cock, standing up proudly in the candlelight. 

“Is it...to your satisfaction?” George asked nervously. His hand drifted from his chest down to his stomach, eventually grabbing his hard prick in his hands. He stroked it out of habit. 

“God,  _ yes.”  _

Without being asked, Alexander quickly threw off his boots, making them clatter to the floor. His breeches followed not long after, and soon, it was just the two of them, naked and gazing at each other. 

Before George moved back to the bed, he went to his satchel in the corner of the room, bringing out the whale oil that Alexander had bought back in Middlebrook that he had stashed away. He was thankful that he remembered. 

“How far are you willing to go, tonight?” He asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“I want all of you, George.” 

He felt his heartbeat speed up within his chest at the words. Alexander wanted him, and that is all he cared about in this dark world.  _ Alexander wanted him.  _

“Spread your legs, love.” He commanded, and the boy did not hesitate to execute the action. His legs spread wide, giving George a perfect view of his hard dick, laying across his stomach. He uncapped the whale oil, and slicked two of his fingers in the lubricant. 

“Are you sure?” He asks one final time. Alexander only nodded, causing George to frown slightly down at him. 

“Say it, Alexander.” 

A pause. A breath. A scratch of a nail against the sheets. 

“I want this.” 

When George looked up at the boy through heavy lashes, hair still fanned across the bed, they caught each other’s eye. He looked truthful, and George assured himself that he meant it. 

So he stalled no longer, and traced his finger behind Alexander’s balls first, making his way down until he found the hole he so desperately wanted around his cock, still hard between his thighs. Alexander gasped at the feeling of being touched there; he certainly was a virgin, given his reactions towards the smallest movements that George had so far been making. 

He slipped the tip of his finger inside, and Alexander threw his hands over his face, a slight gasp escaping his mouth. 

As he eased it inside, he took note of just how tight it felt around his large finger. It seemed to sink in further, until his finger was fully inside, up to the hilt on the beginning of his palm. With his other hand, he slowly began to stroke Alexander’s cock, starting to redden at the tip with blood. 

“Is this alright?” George asked, beginning to slowly move his finger out before pushing it back in. “Does it hurt?” 

“N-no,” Alexander stuttered, still hiding his face. “Your fingers are just bigger than mine.” 

“So you have done this to yourself.” George sped up, but only slightly, still stroking Alexander’s dick to keep him feeling pleasure. “What I would have given to see that.” 

“Maybe, one day-” Suddenly, the boy above him shuddered and cut himself off, arching his back. George had crooked his finger upward, trying to find the spot where he knew Alexander would feel the most pleasure. He seemed to have found it. 

“There?” He clarified. Alexander weakly nodded, his hands now gripping at the roots of his hair. 

George slipped another finger in without much resistance. Alexander gave his first moan of the night, but immediately covered his mouth, trying not to be too loud. He hoped the boy would keep it that way for the rest of the night, and perhaps they would find the time to be loud some other day. But for now, in the dark of night when the family who owns the house is sleeping upstairs, they had to be quiet. 

“I am going to add a third.” George said after some time, making sure Alexander got used to the feeling, and pulled out his fingers so that he may use more of the whale oil. 

Just as he said, he put in a third finger, causing Alexander to pant harder than before. 

“I want to see your face, Alexander.” George ordered, and the boy hesitated before complying. His face was red, brow beginning to drench in sweat. He looked down at what George was doing, lips parted. He seemed very dazed to George, which he didn’t mind. He was happy he had the effect on the boy; and if anything, he could say he was dazed himself. 

“I’m ready,” Alexander whispered after a time, George thrusting in his fingers faster and faster and making the boy moan. 

“Very well.” He responded, unable to hold himself back as well. He feared that if he waited any longer, he would lose himself just by doing this, seeing Alexander sweat in pleasure under the use of his fingers. 

George maneuvered his fingers out of Alexander and sat on the bed fully with his knees under him, the boy’s legs still spread wide. He took more whale oil in the palm of his hand, stroking the oil along the length of himself, closing his eyes in the pleasure of the action. 

“Wait,” Alexander stopped George from continuing, holding up in his hand. “I need a drink first.” 

“Is that wise?” George asked him, but retrieved the bottle of Mount Vernon wine anyway, only an arms length away. He held it out to the boy, who gingerly took it from his hands, taking a swig of the red liquid. 

“Does it matter?” Alexander asked after swallowing the wine. Setting the bottle on the floor and leaning down once again, he seemed ready for what was to come, now that he had quenched his thirst for the alcohol. 

He put one hand by Alexander’s face on the bed sheets, leaning over him, careful not to trample his hair. George now held his hard dick in his hands, pausing before his entrance. 

“I need to hear you say it.” He decided to say before moving any more forward. 

Alexander looked up at him with bright eyes, blown wide with lust and desire. George imagined that he looked no different, looking down at his boy. His hands moved to wrap around George’s neck, holding there securely so that he could have something solid to hold onto. 

“I need you to fuck me, George.” 

He felt a shiver dance down his spine at the use of the vulgar language, along with his own name paired at the end of the statement. He never thought he would enjoy his name said on another pair of lips, but the way Alexander was looking up at him, determined to take all what George had to offer, made his knees go weak holding up his weight. 

He leaned down. Kissed those same lips in a quick peck, tasting the wine stain there. Then, he began to push inside. 

At first, there was some residence pressing against the head of his cock. He groaned at the feeling of something other than his own hand brushing the most sensitive spot, and looked down at their hips, far too apart for his liking. George held himself harder, attempting not to spill himself early, before he pressed again, and Alexander let himself welcome the intrusion into his body. 

With the head of his dick now fully inside the boy, he glanced up at Alexander with questioning eyes. He only received a nod in response to keep going. 

George shallowly moved his hips slowly forward, biting down to prevent himself from going too fast, possibly hurting Alexander. The boy was breathing hard, lips sealed in concentration as he tried not to groan out in pain. George felt pity. 

Once he was fully seated inside Alexander, he let out a shaky breath into the younger man’s neck, sighing at the feeling that he was experiencing. Alexander was extremely tight, even with the preparation that George had done to him. His muscles clenched around him, making it even worse, and even the slightest shift of either of their hips caused one or the other to groan. 

“Are you okay?” George asked, trying to make up for the pain by kissing Alexander’s throat softly, leaving marks of his wet lips behind. 

“I feel as if I am being impaled by a log,” Alexander’s voice was strained, but remained light. 

They both laughed at the analogy, but soon it caused Alexander to take in a sharp intake of breath, and for George to moan at the movements of their hips at the action. 

“Maybe we should not laugh so much.” It was now George’s turn to have his voice become strained. The tight, wet heat of Alexander had felt too good, and if he moved any much else, he feared that he would lose all sense of self control. 

“You can move,” Alexander assured him by scraping his hands along George’s back, just enough so his nails would drag along the skin there. 

George obliged without objection. He lifted himself off of Alexander’s chest first, to give himself room to work, and he leaned his hips back just a fraction, before slipping them forward again. He gasped at the feeling of being engulfed in such heat, relishing in the experience. 

“You feel so good, Alexander.” George closed his eyes and groaned. 

“You are far too big,” The boy under him gasped loudly. “How did your wife even  _ deal  _ with this?” 

George stopped the shallow movements of his hips. 

“Please, do not mention her right now.” He stated, which Alexander nodded in return, realizing his mistake. 

For the next few moments, they stayed quiet and unmoving, just looking into each other’s eyes. 

George forgot about everything around them. Forgot about Congress and their incessant demands. Forgot about his promotion of Charles Lee, and how he might have been sitting on the other side of camp at that moment, acting as if he had owned the place. Forgot about the reports he would receive daily of how many men were dying because of the frost or the cold. Forgot about the clothes shortages. Forgot about the food shortages. Forgot about the King and this entire damn war that George was risking his life for. 

He realized that his life was right here, in Alexander’s breath. His life was within the small whimpers and groans of the boy under him, the candles flickering around them, and the forgotten wine bottle on the wooden floor boards of the house that they currently resided in. 

George’s entire life was living within this room. 

And he absolutely loved it. 

He began to move again, resting his forehead against Alexander’s own. It had been hard at first to keep an even pace, but after a few strokes and beautiful sounds made from the boy under him, it had become easier to hold himself back so he would not yet cum inside just yet. He desperately wanted to make this moment drag on as long as it could, so that he would not let his life here within the room end just yet. 

This moment had no right to die. They were running out of time as it was. 

“Move to the left.” Alexander commanded, and George did as he was asked, before suddenly the boy arched his back, gasping at the new found spot. 

“There?” George whispered into Alexander’s ear. He gave a nod as his only response. 

Alexander’s cock was starting to harden again between them as George worked through the same movement to make him preen and moan. He must have found that same spot as he did with his fingers, for now Alexander was a writhing mess underneath him, scratching his back harder. 

The boy wrapped his legs behind George’s back, hooking them with his heels, causing the General’s cock to go impossibly deeper within the boy. George gasped at the feeling, pistoning his hips forward harder in a fleeting moment of forgotten self control. Alexander moaned. 

“God, just like that.” He insisted on getting more from George, and he would give his all for Alexander, if it meant that he could have this just one more time. 

Reaching between them, he took Alexander’s cock in his hands, relishing the hard tissue as it hardened even more within his grasp. George’s large hand enveloped the younger boy’s dick, and he began to stroke in tandem with his own thrusts, causing Alexander to shut his eyes tight in an effort to quell the sounds he was making. 

“Oh- oh my god,” Were the only words Alexander could say through rasped breath. George could have smiled at that, because he liked to think himself the sort of a man who could make anyone writhe underneath him effortlessly, but held back the smirk. 

“I am close.” Alexander gasped. “Go faster, George, please-” 

He had no time to finish the sentence, because George had given him a particularly hard thrust, causing the boy’s hips to lift off of the bed due to the intensity of it. At the same moment, Alexander let out a particularly loud moan, but was cut off by George’s own lips muffling the sound. He had a feeling such a thing might occur. 

As he pounded into Alexander, stroking his cock between them with a vice like grip, George had lost all sense of self control. He let the floodgates open to all the senses he was feeling, instead of just the one that his cock was enduring inside of Alexander’s body. He could feel the boy’s legs tighten around him, heels digging into his lower back. He could feel his rough hand contrasting with the smoothness of Alexander’s cock, now pulsating in his hand. He could feel the intense way that Alexander was kissing him back, almost as if he was injecting the fire that had been so present within his eyes into George’s mouth, and into his soul. 

He loved every single second of this moment. They were running out of time. 

Alexander’s orgasm seemed to wash over him, much like a wave of hot water was being dumped along his body. It started with his head, when his face contorted to something akin to pain, if George had seen that face in any other context besides what they were currently doing. His shoulders tensed, causing Alexander’s arms to lock up along George’s back, digging his nails into his shoulder blades. His back lifted high off of the bed, causing George to move to accommodate the action. Then, finally, hot cum was suddenly over both of their stomachs, with tremors of pleasure reaching Alexander’s legs, which entailed his heels digging harder into George’s back. 

George wished he was disappointed the moment had ended too soon, but before he could dwell on it, his own orgasm came rushing on the heels of Alexander’s own. One stroke, two, and he was deeply rooted inside of the boy before he decided to let go of his self control, spilling cum inside of Alexander. 

He bit the side of the boy’s neck to keep himself quiet. It was sure to leave a mark. 

For a moment, they sat there, George inside of Alexander and the boy’s heels still hooked together on the General’s back and nails sunk deeply into his shoulders, basking in the afterglow of both their highs. Their skins were draped with a thin layer of sweat from their coupling, and George could not bring himself to remove it from his eyelashes as it dripped into his vision. 

“I am in love with you.” Alexander said, breaking the silence. 

“And I, you, my love.” 

They kissed, and the passage of time was no longer of concern to George. The war would end, in due time, but for now, it was at a standstill. 

The war would not wait for them, but in this sliver of time, within a townhouse surrounded by the continental army, the war seemed to wait. The war seemed to stop. 

George had never felt so alive. 

-

Aaron Burr liked to think that his vision never failed him. 

Like, in Quebec, he remembered seeing the man that would shoot Montgomery before the bullet even left his musket. He could notice how the British redcoat held their eyes on Montgomery, holding their musket on the man’s head. The bullet hadn’t even left the barrel before Aaron knew that the man would die from such a wound. 

So, that is why now, he stood at the dead of night, watching the townhouse where George Washington resided, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. 

It had been about two hours since Alexander Hamilton had gone inside the house, and the man still had yet to make an appearance out in the dead of night. 

What important meeting could have possibly lasted this long? 

Suddenly, the door opened just a crack, a shadow slipping out from between the cracks of the wooden entrance. The sentries spared no second glance at the figure slipping out, knowing very well who it was by this time. Alexander tied his hair back into a ribbon as he walked away, the torches in front of the house igniting his actions in light. 

Aaron could have sworn a spot on the side of his neck looked darker than the rest of the skin there, but it must have been a trick of the light; he assured himself as much. There could be no possible explanation. 

But again, that is what Aaron told himself. 

-

“It’s snowing.” 

“So what?” 

“It’s  _ snowing.  _ On  _ Christmas. _ ” John let his hands fall to his side in a huff. “We were all supposed to celebrate.  _ Outside. _ ” 

Alexander sat up in his bed, maneuvering himself to look out between the logs of wood holding the frames of their hut together. John was at the foot of the cot, sitting upright in his nightclothes, hands pressed up to the wood so he could get a better look. Alexander could see the tiny dots of white floating down outside, the wind carrying them into different places he could not see. John was right; it was snowing alright. 

“We can do just fine staying inside.” Alexander flopped back onto the center of his cot, rubbing his eyes. The bunk shook, but John still hadn’t moved from his spot looking out between the logs of their wall. 

“Where is Lafayette?” He asked, eyes finally clearing of the morning sleepiness fog. 

“Staining the fresh snow yellow, I’m sure.” 

A quiet silence settled between the pair, causing Alexander to recall the events from last night. 

It had been everything, and yet nothing, of what he expected from George. He didn’t know what he intended to come out from that night in the first place. He had walked into that room fully expecting to be sent back into British hands, and had left that room fully fucked and flushed from the events that had transpired between them. 

He expected more pain when his eyes opened that morning. However, God must have been watching over him, granting only a slight burn, but the bruises on his hips hurt much more than anything George could have ever fucked him with. 

He half expected George to take him harder. At the same time, he also expected George to take his time, and to an extent, that is exactly what he had done. 

All Alexander knew was that he needed it to happen again. Perhaps not so soon, to allow him time to recover, but not longer than a week. He needed to have George closer once more. 

“What are you thinking about?” John finally extracted himself from the limited view between the cracks in the wall, glancing at Alexander, still laying down and staring at the top of the bunk. 

“Nothing.” 

Alexander finally decided it was time to fully wake up, groaning into his pillow before letting his bare feet hit the floor, hair cascading all over his shoulders. He prayed it would keep the dark purple bruise blooming along the side of his neck hidden. 

“I didn’t see you come back last night.” 

His heart stopped in his chest. 

“Where were you, Alex?” John continued, now looking at Alexander directly. He saw him shift in the corner of his vision; he was still looking at the floor. He took in a shaky breath; John had already known about him and George, and seemed to express indifference about their relationship. John almost never brought it up, but when he did, it was somewhat supportive. Alexander could see no harm in telling him. 

“I spent most of my evening with George.” He breathed out after the consideration. 

John didn’t say anything for a while. He merely sat there, taking in the sentence and absorbing the words, trying to find the meaning of them. 

“Oh,” He finally did say. “ _ Oh. _ ” 

“He fed me dinner, to begin with, since today was Christmas.” Alexander chose not to add in how in George’s past he would celebrate the holiday with his family; he did not know if John was deserving of such a piece of information just yet. “After, he..” 

“You need not say what he did. I can infer from your tone of voice.” 

He couldn’t find an appropriate response to that, so he stayed there, continuing to memorize the cracks in the newly placed floorboards. 

“Was it good?” John asked, causing Alexander to turn. His face had a slight smirk grazing those full lips of his, and he could have sworn that he saw a tint of red among John’s cheeks. 

“Do you want the truth?” 

“Of course.” John clarified. “Tell me, I am curious, though if you do not wish to share then I will not blame you.” 

“Okay, well,” Alexander pondered what he would say for a moment, not wanting to spill too much about what had happened. “He was very gentle, more so than I expected. And he, uh, loved me.” 

He shook his head. 

“He proved to me that he loved me.” He corrected himself, now nodding at the change of phrase. 

“I’m very glad that happened, Alex, but you are missing the most important answer.” John laughed to himself, causing Alexander to raise his brow in confusion. But, as the realization hit him, John was already talking. 

“You refrained from mentioning how hung the General was. Now tell me, is he more of a bull, or a horse?” 

“John!” Alexander’s entire face lit up in embarrassment as he roughly shoved John off of the bed. He seemed to do so only to satisfy the other, who was still shaking from the comment. John couldn’t stop laughing from his place on the floor. 

“Well?” He asked through strained breaths. “Are you going to tell me?” 

“Absolutely  _ not. _ ” Gasped Alexander, putting his hand over his chest in an offended posture. “Who do you think I am? Some common whore from New York?” 

“From Albany, if I remember correctly!” John retorted, laughing even harder. Alexander then began to let himself relax, letting out small fits of laughter himself. 

This was nice; spending the morning inside of the hut with John laughing about his sexual experience. 

John maneuvered himself off of the floor, the laughter starting to die down. He sat on the edge of the bed facing Alexander once more, like he had done earlier before he was rightfully shoved off of the cot. 

“I only asked because I have yet to find someone who will share an experience like that with me.” John said, frankly. “The war had been consuming all of my time, and I have yet to find a fair woman, or man, in this camp.” 

“I cannot say I agree with that sentiment.” Alexander ran his hand through his tangled hair; a force of habit. “I am afraid I have someone to warm my bed.” 

“In a sense,” John pondered out loud, reaching to place his open palm on his cheek. “General Washington really did bed his foe.” 

Alexander took the words in. When once he was the enemy, he was now in the highest power of the camp. He had fucked George Washington, the very center of the entire conflict. The bounty of his head was enough to buy an entire elite plantation in the south, or an entire developing mill in the north. George Washington was the  _ center  _ of the revolutionary ideals that had been formed during this costly war. 

And here Alexander was,  _ fucking him,  _ and being  _ loved  _ by him. George would do anything for him. George would listen to anything he would say. 

He held the entire army in his hands, and only now, did that power fully rush to his head. 

Alexander held all the cards. He was effectively the general of the continental army. 

And God, did it feel good. 

-

Aaron Burr was confused, to say the least. 

After he had gone to bed yesterday, he could not get Hamilton off of his mind; to put it more accurately, he had kept thinking of his actions when Aaron was set to watch him enter the small townhouse where the General resided. 

But he was surprised when two hours later, Hamilton did indeed emerge from the General’s quarters, he seemed disorganized and disheveled. He was in such a rush to return back to his hut, and Aaron did his best to follow the aide, but was seen by too many soldiers around him to get truly close to Hamilton; he had only wanted to do so to see the dark spot on the aide’s neck, and possibly even gain the courage to confront the man. 

When Aaron woke up that morning, he knew that the latter part of his plan would never have been accomplished. He preferred to wait for his opportunity, rather than seize the moment; unlike Hamilton, who he had been watching for almost a week now, independently without help. 

Lee had told him that more soldiers would reveal themselves to Aaron in due time to help him with the mission, but the more time that dragged on, he felt less and less inclined to believe the statement from the second in command. It had seemed odd at first, but now, with the days ticking by on the calendar, the year coming to a close, the soldiers dying, and even more leaving camp entirely, Aaron now assumed that he would be working on his own for the time being. 

Which was fine, if you asked him. Being alone was the best choice for a situation like this. 

It also made it easier to gather the necessary intelligence; Hamilton was less likely to notice a single man tailing him rather than a large group, for an example. 

Aaron was still in bed until late that morning, replaying his memory of the night before over and over in his head. He was set to meet with Lee later that day; which might have been soon, considering how long he had refused to move himself from the dip in his cheap cot. 

He was not sure if he should tell Lee of the incident that he saw. He would figure out when the time had come, But first, he needed to cross camp to get to the headquarters, and in order to do that, he needed to properly dress himself, and get out of the damn hut that he had spent his entire morning in. 

As Aaron pulled himself out of bed and began to organize his clothing, he wondered once more about Hamilton. 

All throughout the night, he had continued to think that Hamilton was pulled into the town house to be sent back to the British troops, much as he had told the man himself yesterday morning when they had walked throughout camp. He had no work here in Valley Forge, there was no reason to keep him. 

So for the first half hour, Aaron fully expected to see Hamilton pulled out of the house, escorted by the guards to the edge of camp, his continental blue uniform being stripped off of him as people gathered around him to watch the turncoat finally get what he deserved. 

But time dragged on past a half hour. A half hour turned into an hour. An hour turned into two. Hamilton had yet to emerge from inside the house. 

It did not help that the drapes within the window had been closed. At one point, Aaron moved around the house in the increasing darkness, out of the view of the sentries, to get a better look to see what might have been happening on the inside of those sturdy walls. He had become disappointed when he saw that all the drapes had been pulled securely shut within every window of the house, not giving any possible indication to where Hamilton could have been inside. 

And that  _ bruise.  _ Only one thing could have explained that. 

Or, possibly two separate conclusions to how it got there. Maybe even three. Aaron dared not to think of them before talking to Hamilton himself; though he doubted he would get any solid answers. 

When he had finally emerged from the hut, now bringing himself back to the present, Aaron held out his hand in front of him, palm up towards the sky. 

It was snowing on Christmas. How ironic. 

He picked up his boots, and walked towards General Lee’s tent. 

The snow crunched under Aaron’s feet in a satisfying sound, and he focused on looking at his shoes instead of the soldiers around them. The camp had gone from tents to huts in a matter of a week, everyone who was able pitching in their part to chop trees, or gather nails, or collect water and suitable food stuff for the people who could actually work. Aaron did almost none of that. 

He hopped from empty cot to empty cot. He never stayed for long. 

Passing the stables, then the other officers quarters, he had finally reached Lee’s hut, where the sentries stopped him before entering. 

“He has been waiting for you.” One of them said. Aaron could only nod. 

“I apologize for being late. May I enter?”

The sentries moved to the side, leaving the door free to open for Aaron himself to do. If Lee wanted real sentries, he would hire those that Washington had in front of his own headquarters; ones who were respectable enough to not speak until spoken to, or even open the door for guests. 

But, Aaron was not the one in charge here. He had a job to do. 

The door handle was cold in his hands, and once he had opened it, Lee was standing near a bookshelf that must have been newly placed, because Aaron had not remembered seeing it there the last time he was in the hut. Lee had a book in his hands, but shut the covers together when Aaron had stepped fully inside the four walls. 

“Ah, if it isn’t Burr.” He smirked, setting the book off to the side. 

Aaron didn’t bother sticking out his hand. He knew he would not be shaken hands with. 

“Now, tell me how things are going.” 

Before he opened his mouth, he had many thoughts flash through his mind. A part of him wanted to tell Lee of Hamilton’s late night adventure into the townhouse, not emerging until two hours later, with a new bruise forming on the side of his neck. That part of him was screaming inside of his skull, desperate for the extra pay that Lee had promised him. 

But another part told him to wait. He had gotten this far, and once he had given too much information to the second in command, he would be tossed aside, likely without pay. 

Burr went with his latter conscience. 

He is not standing still. He is lying in wait. 

“Hamilton has not met with Washington, sir. I have watched him throughout camp, and even planted seeds of doubt into his mind, so he would see how truly useless he is, and how unnecessary he is to Washington.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he ignored the feeling and continued to speak. “He might start to realize that he can no longer influence the General.” 

“Good, good.” Lee stroked the cover of the book, making Aaron almost cringe. “You will continue to keep an eye on him, yes?” 

Aaron nodded. 

“Excellent.” Lee’s smirk widened. “The more that you watch him, continue to report back to me. If he influences a decision, even  _ one  _ policy, I need to know about it.” 

“Sir, if you think-” 

“I do  _ not  _ think.” Lee interrupted him. “I  _ know  _ that the boy is a threat. If the rumors around camp and the words of Joseph Reed is true, then Hamilton will need to be disposed of. Reed did try his best, but his approach could have been better. Instead of taking Hamilton straight from the source, you continue to feed that trust, until Washington is caught, and he will be thrown out by his own men.” 

“A coup?” Aaron breathed out, finally realizing Lee’s true plan. 

“No, not a coup. A revolution within a revolution. A show of  _ true  _ power.” 

Aaron Burr shivered at the words. 

The end of Hamilton was coming, and he held the upper hand. 

For now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey who wants a Greene x Knox crack ship in the background, or a side fic for this because I'm seriously considering it.


	7. Act Three, Scene Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I am actually not dead 
> 
> I lost motivation for this fic for a while, but it's all good now, and the Valley Forge arc is all done! Charles Lee arc is up next so get hyped, get excited. 
> 
> University life is killing me, but stay safe everyone. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @the13colonies

George was strolling through camp for the first time in what had felt like forever. 

The week between Christmas and the new year had seemed to  _ drag _ , and by that note, George had been stuck inside of his quarters day and night, not even opening the window for a breath of fresh air, fearing the cold would take him, much like his brother. He had been having the strangest dreams during the night of him, and he undoubtedly knew it must have been because he had opened up to his dearest Alexander. 

Alexander, who he had not seen since Christmas night. 

Admittedly, he had known that he tried to visit his quarters, but at least three letters from Congress detailing all sorts of information that he must have done by the new year and he could not afford to see the boy who he loved; George wouldn’t have gotten any work done. He  _ loathed  _ writing the letters and orders to multiple soldiers and officers, hauled up inside of the townhouse. Not to mention the fact that half of the time, his mind wandered from pure  _ boredom,  _ thinking of Alexander and his beautiful body under him, keeping his cock warm. 

He looked to the trees in the distance. He wouldn’t get hard in public. 

Those orders have mostly been done for now, and the second of January carrying this brisk warmer morning than the others in the past week, George decided to take a stroll through camp, and maybe even get a glimpse of his boy somewhere. He did need the extra help, he told himself so he could give his aides a rest, and maybe now had been the time to put his aides to work. The holiday was over, and they had nothing to do that George knew of. 

He had been walking for not all of five minutes when a soldier had come up from his left. The work of a General never seems to stop; even if he had wanted to take a simple walk around camp. 

He wished to be back within Alexander’s legs. Time seemed to stop for them, at least. 

“Your Excellency, sir!” the young boy exclaimed, slightly out of breath from running. It seemed to look as if he was coming from the main entrance of camp to the south. 

“Can you not see that I am trying to have a morning to myself?” He couldn’t help but groan. The boy looked at him, saying nothing. 

George sighed. “Go on.” 

“Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but you have a guest that needs your attention.” 

George contorted his face, eyes now drifting over to the south side of camp. In the distance, he could see the sentries on their horses, guns now on their shoulders rather than in their hands. They were talking to a man that George could barely see; the man sat on top of a carriage, the shades drawn shut. It didn’t look familiar to George’s knowledge. 

“Did they say who our quest is?” He asked the sentry. 

“No, but the driver mentioned that it was a woman.” 

George shut his eyes. 

He knew who was in the carriage. 

Without talking to the man further, he sharply turned his feet to the entrance of camp, hands now clenched into fists as he strided through the snow. His feet crunched in the material, borderline catching the large overcoat with the dragging back in the white ground. 

George had no immediate thoughts as he made his way over. His mind was a clouded fog; drifting alrightly, but not a clear thought to be seen. Only the fuzzed edges of feelings floated through his mind. 

The carriage was stopped in front of the wooden gates, as small as they were; George would have to let the woman inside out into the camp by opening the door for her, and the diver would have to turn around and return to where he came from. The sooner that he left, the sooner that the woman would leave, making this entire trip easier for him. 

He stepped close enough to be within twenty feet of the carriage, now passing the horses connected to the reins in the driver’s hands.. The sentries immediately stood at attention, straightening their backs and looking straight forward. 

George almost rolled his eyes at them for the formality. 

He looked to the driver still sitting on the carriage top, looking down at George with wonder. 

“Do you mind if I open the door myself?” He asked, gesturing to the closed carriage. The driver could only nod in fear, for he had not expected to meet the General himself, George was sure. 

He sighed himself and decided it was best to get this over with quickly and painless as he possibly could. So, without thinking about the action more, George reached for the carriage door and opened it quickly, holding his hand inside for the woman to grab. 

Her frail skin made contact with his, and he slowly led her out as she stepped on the small step leading into the snow. Her dress pooled at her ankles, the highboots he knew so well crunching the snow next to him. The dress was a dark violet this time around; one that must have been new. 

“Martha, dear.” He looked at her flushed cheeks in the fresh winter, looking up at him after he had called her name. 

“George.” Martha smiled up at him. “How beautiful it is to see you again.” 

In a calculated and forced move, he leaned down to her height, and kissed her cheek, still holding her hand. 

Alexander would forgive him later, when he would learn of his wife’s untimely arrival. 

-

Alexander had been hearing strange rumors run around camp, and so far, he had not liked any of them. 

Lady Washington has seemed to have come to camp, and if the rumors were true, then Alexander was fucked. Thoroughly fucked. And not in the way he would have rathered to like to be fucked by the General himself; no, by the system of social expectations called ‘marriage.’ 

Alexander wouldn’t think that George would outright tell his wife of them. It wasn’t his style, at least, from his experience working closely to George. He remembered how reluctantly he let Greene find out of them, let alone his  _ wife,  _ whom he shared his estate. 

Come to think of it, he had never known anything about Lady Washington. George had never stayed on topic long enough to have a deliberate conversation about the woman. For all Alexander knew, he could be breaking up a happy marriage. George had mentioned to him, back in Morristown, that he had a wife.

But George loved him. Alexander had to hold on to that simple thought; the cold at Valley Forge was relentless, and if he wanted any chance to survive the winter, he would have to hold onto at least one warm thought. The cold wouldn’t eat through his spirit. 

Speaking of cold, Alexander thought briefly, he tugged the large black overcoat over his shoulders tighter, briefly shielding him from the wind. It was a hard snow, the day before, and it was a bad idea to stay cooped up within the hut. Alexander started to feel restless while John went and worked closely with George in important matters since the new year had begun; not enough correspondence had come through to require more than two or three aides, and Alexander was at the bottom of the hierarchy, due to his conflict of interest in his past.

So he would walk around camp. It is not as if he had much else to do. 

His hair up, coat on, and shoes laced tight, Alexander stood in front of the most recent huts being built, near the southern side of camp. The new soldiers would arrive here, and build their own huts. Alexander decided to stop working after the med hut was finished, so here he stood, watching boys arrange logs from nearby cut trees. 

“Cold morning?” A voice from his side appeared. Alexander nearly jumped, but instead, relaxed his posture, letting his arms drop from so close to his chest. 

“Mr. Burr, sir.” Alexander forced himself to smile, despite the bitter taste it left. “What brings you out on this fine morning?” 

“I would hardly call this morning fine.” Burr responded with a slight quip. “But I have left my hut, that is a start.” 

“Left your hut of sulking?”    
  
“I do not  _ sulk. _ ” Burr responded with a scowl. “I merely have nothing much else to do in this weather.” 

“Then why don’t you help out the boys building huts?” Alexander made a mental note to never mention Burr’s seemingly unstable mental state. “I haven’t seen you do any in the month or so we have been here.” 

“I am afraid you are right.” Burr brings his hand to his mouth, scratching his chin. “I simply do not have the taste for manual labor.” 

“Neither do they, it seems.” 

Burr hums in agreement, and a thoughtful silence spilling into the space between them. The cold air drifted around them, swirling fresh snow up into the air, and falling back down to their feet. Alexander had nothing more to say to Burr, so he stayed quiet, not wanting to have any more conversation with the odd man. 

“To reverse the situation, why are you here, instead of working with Washington?” Burr asked, now facing Alexander head on, hand still on his chin. “Laurens is working. Why aren’t you?” 

“Conflict of interest.” Alexander bit back his words, attempting not to snarl them out. “The higher working aides are doing the work, correspondence has slowed in light of the ending campaign.” 

“Makes sense. Too bad Washington doesn’t have his dog to follow him.” 

Alexander felt his blood run cold within himself, suddenly making the wind around him more noticeable. It was a snide comment from Burr, that was absolute. He had no clue what had been going on between George and himself. Burr couldn’t have known anything, and if Alexander stayed silent for much longer, then the man would absolutely know that something might have been wrong with him. 

“Dog?” He asked instead, begging for clarification. 

“All he ever does is worry about  _ you. _ ” Burr seemed to spit out that last word. “During the campaign, you were always at his side, and he always wanted to give you the first bit of information he got.” 

“That isn’t true. Laurens often got first notice, not me.” 

“I’m sure.” Burr turned away. “Whichever the case, it is unfortunate you aren’t being put to good use here.” 

Alexander knew that ploy. It almost seemed as if Burr was trying to reinforce the feeling of uselessness into his consciousness, perhaps in hope to make him feel as if he didn’t feel needed here, and that he might leave the lines to return back to the British. 

Burr would have to be disappointed. He had no intention to return back to the redcoat lines; not when George needed him. No matter what Burr said, Alexander knew that much to be a fact. 

“I’ll be available when he does decide to use my help.” He ended up saying, far too calculated to be within normal speaking conversation. 

Just like it had started, the conversation quickly ended, and suddenly, John seemed to materialize at Alexander’s other side, where Burr is not. He nearly thanked whatever God was watching over him; anything to make Burr go away. 

“Alex.” John interrupted. “We need to have a discussion.” 

By the look in his eyes, he could tell it was urgent, so Alexander turned to Burr. 

“Nice seeing you out of your hut.” Alexander offered. A figurative olive branch to defuse the tense words of his peer. 

Burr only nodded and started walking the other direction. 

“Thank  _ God _ ,” Alexander practically groaned, pulling the jacket closer to his body after letting them fall earlier. “I thought he would never leave. Thanks John, for getting rid of him.” 

“I actually do have news to discuss.” He said, and Alexander quickly let his smile for his friend fade into a confused expression. John continued to stare at him, almost sympathetically, before Alexander could connect the dots to what John was planning to tell him. 

“Let’s...go somewhere else.” John asked timidly, afraid to speak to him too harshly. 

Alexander nodded and began to walk north, away from where he was standing with Burr. 

“What did Burr have to say for himself?” John caught up to Alexander’s brisk pace. “Finally got out of his sulking state?” 

“You know, I asked him that too.” Alexander said. “But yes, he emerged after a while. Asked why I wasn’t working with you.” 

“Don’t let him get too far deep into that British brain of yours.” Alexander knew the comment was a joke, so he let it go. “You know he is just provoking you to leave, right?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

“I...heard he has been friendly with Charles Lee, recently.” John seemed to hesitate. “Visiting his headquarters, stalking around camp.” 

At the mention of Burr wandering around camp, watching everyone, Alexander instinctively looked over his shoulder to where they were standing not too long ago, but saw no trace of the man anywhere around the area. He guessed that Burr finally had some sense and returned to his hermit hut. Alexander practically grinned at the name as he faced forward again. 

“I guess I will have to be careful.” Alexander noted, putting emphasis on himself to hint to John what he meant, without saying it out loud, in case anyone would hear it. 

“Yes, you will have to be.” John agreed, and fell silent besides the crunching of their feet in the snow. Alexander heightened their pace so they would get to the hut faster; he wanted to get the conversation over with, and he knew exactly what was coming. 

Once they arrived, they closed the clothed door, tying the strings on a small metal smithed hook on the doorframe. 

“Okay, listen, I know what you’re about to hear isn’t going to sit easy with you-” John started, but Alexander had cut him off, impatient for what he was about to tell him. 

“Lady Washington is here, isn’t she?” 

Alexander meant it as a question, but when the words formed and came out of his mouth, it seemed to be a doomed statement rather than the calm demeanor that he had tried to keep on his front. 

“Yes.” John sighed out, rubbing his face in his hands. “I-I saw her, standing in the living room in that house, and I just couldn’t move. I mean, he has told you about her right? He had to, otherwise you would be breaking up a  _ marriage. _ ” 

“He has told me.” Alexander turned to look at the floorboards, trying not to think of the truth. “He hasn’t explained to me the nature of their situation, but George is not a man to simply just toss her aside when he has found something new, is he?” 

“You’re asking me?” John placed his hand on his chest as if he was offended, his eyes pleading. “You’re the one in love with the man. How do you not know the details of his wife?” 

Alexander opened his mouth to speak, but shut it in a better mind. He truly had no idea how to respond to the situation. The man who he loves, he had only just realized that he truly knows nothing of the true nature of his past, besides his brother and the small snippets he had gotten when reading through George’s journals. 

It wasn’t nearly enough information. When did he know that he liked men? What did he do when he was commissioned within the British army? Who had shaped his military career? Had he directly killed anyone during his past campaigns? How was his mother? 

The questions swirling within Alexander’s mind made him dizzy. He reached up to touch his head as a dull ache settled it’s roots there. 

“Look-” John started. 

“No. I will not go over there. I am not going to intrude on them, if anything. We need to keep up public opinion.” 

As much as Alexander painted himself to say it, the statement was the truth. It made his chest feel as if he had taken a hard shot blow from cannon fire. 

“I have to return to work.” John uncomfortably said. 

“Look, John, I’m sorry you’re dragged into all this.” 

“It’s okay, Alex.” John sighed and turned towards the door, but paused before moving the cloth, shifting his head back to Alexander. “You know, when I first found you two, I thought you were using him to gain intelligence on the General. Now, I am not too sure about what is going on, but I hope that it does not involve the situation being reversed.” 

_ I hope he is not using you,  _ is a phrase that is unsaid, but heavily implied by the tone of John’s voice. 

The thought stuck with Alexander as he stomped his foot into the floor as hard as he could without breaking anything within the hut. 

The pocket watch seemed to weigh as much as a bar of pure gold within his trousers. In the deafening silence, Alexander swore it was ticking faster than before. 

He was running out of time. 

-

_ “Lady Washington is here, isn’t she?”  _

_ “Yes. I-I saw her, standing in the living room in that house, and I just couldn’t move. I mean, he has told you about her right? He had to, otherwise you would be breaking up a  _ marriage _ .”  _

_ “He hasn’t explained to me the nature of their situation, but George is not a man to simply just toss her aside when he has found something new, is he?” _

_ “You’re asking me? You’re the one in love with the man. How do you not know the details of his wife?” _

_ “No. I will not go over there. I am not going to intrude on them, if anything. We need to keep up public opinion.”  _

Burr strained his ears against the wooden logs of the hut where Hamilton and Laurens were inside, seemingly arguing, trying to decipher the conversation happening between them. 

He couldn’t believe what on earth he was hearing. 

So. This is why Hamilton has Washington within his pocket. The late night visits. The compliance to hearing new information, even when Hamilton had no experience in the matter; not to mention, being a former British soldier. 

Burr leaned away from the wooden logs, eyes wide and hands no longer shaking from cold. 

Hamilton didn’t hesitate. He just took what he wanted; and what he wanted most was power. 

A love affair enveloped with the gold strings of power. 

Burr resisted the urge to laugh.  _ What a divine comedy.  _

-

George pulled the chair out of the corner of his quarters and set it in front of his large work desk within the house study. Martha gingerly took the seat, and he tucked it forward under her bottom so that she could sit comfortably. He moved to sit in his own chair as his wife looked all around the study with curious eyes. 

“This is where you work?” She asked, voice calm. George had not heard her speak in so long, he had almost forgotten what she had sounded like. If anything, it sounded like ice in a hot mouth during a summer day. Welcome and wanted. 

“For now, yes.” He unbuttoned his coat slightly, allowing himself to relax in her presence. “You should have seen my previous ones. All cramped within tents during the campaign, and in Morristown it was actually less furnished and smaller than this study.” 

“I’m sure you are grateful towards the family, here.” 

“I am.” George paused, taking in her appearance. Her lilac colored dress was new; he cannot place if he had seen it at Mount Vernon or not. The highboots he saw leaving tracks in the snow on their way to the house he had seen before, however. He had bought them for her within their first year of marriage. It was heartwarming to see that Martha decided to wear them. 

“You never wrote to say that you were coming.” He remarked, still jarred by the sudden appearance on his camp. 

“I apologize for...not writing to you more often.” Martha confessed, fidgeting with her hands somewhere under the front of the desk that George could not see. “I have been preoccupied, which is why I have decided to meet with you in person.” 

“Have I done something wrong?” George’s face contorted into something of confusion on its own accord. 

“No, absolutely not George.” She reached forward to grab his hand, sitting limp on the wooden desk. Her hands were still cold from the outside snow, despite the fresh fire from the fireplace burning next to them. 

“Then, what are you doing all the way in Philadelphia?” He returned the gesture, draping his large hand over her tiny fingers. 

“I have never pretended to ignore the true matter of our relationship, George.” Martha started, her smile still present on her face. “I was a widow, and you needed the land along with the property that came with my name. I am not ignorant to the fact that you have never been in love with me.

“Recently, the Davis’ brought over a merchant from New York City.” She paused, looking down at their conjoined hands. “His name was Markus.” 

“Oh?” George smiled at her when they connected eyes, seeing where the conversation was headed. “Tell me more about him.” 

“He has been living in New York City since he was a child, and recently made some high priced trades with the Davis family. They had become friends, and one night I happened to invite the wife Mary and her family to have dinner in Mount Vernon.” 

“I hope you didn’t use the nice silverware,” George said between sentences, earning a small laugh from his wife. “The Davis’ do not know their asses from their mouths.” 

“Well, at least, the men are like that. Poor Mary is being put through the wringer.” Martha waves her hand. “When they arrived, Markus was with them, and I have been pleased enough to enjoy his company in our home. We have been sending letters ever since October, and I am pleased to say that he does not desire...carnal pleasures, as you know is something that I wish not to participate in.” 

“You are on your way to New York City so that you may see him, aren’t you?” George asked, jumping the gun to what Martha intended to say. 

“Yes. I was considering asking permission, but I am afraid I would have gone to see him either way, and I do not wish to argue with you about an issue as big as this one.” 

“I am in no way opposed.” George tucked his thumb under her forefinger. “I know how discrete you are, an incredible woman you are Martha, and I only wish to meet this man one day back at Mount Vernon.” 

He raised her hand and kissed her knuckles in a sweet pause. He had expected her to take up a lover, especially one that does not need sex as George felt like he did. All that mattered to him was the fact that Martha seemed to be happy, and George was more than happy to let her be. 

Now, she would need to learn about Alexander. It was his turn to share. 

“I...have something to share with you as well.” He placed her wrist down back on the desk, fearing what she might have to say; Alexander was a man, after all. He had only ever shown interest in women, until his pretty face had come along. 

“Yes, dear?” Her eyes seemed to sparkle at him when she looked through her lashes. Martha had always seemed to have that effect on the men around her; it was what drew George into her charms, and what he was sure drew Markus in as well. 

“I have met someone as well.” He breathed out in a calculated breath, trying not to cringe at his own words. Alexander meant something to him, greatly, and he had nothing to be ashamed about for that. 

Except, maybe his wife’s approval. 

“Oh, dear, that is great.” She beamed at him as he sighed. The hard part was coming. 

“He is a man. One of my aides, in fact.” He was tempting to pull back his hand, but held Martha’s tight instead of changing his mind. “He was a British soldier that I had captured and managed to turn to the revolutionary cause.” 

Martha let her smile fade, giving George anxiety at what was to come. 

“Alexander Hamilton.” She said, testing the name on her tongue. 

“You know of him?” 

“Word travels fast of a British soldier turned revolutionary and working at your right hand. Practically all of our neighbors wanted to know what on earth you were thinking.” Martha laughed slightly to herself. “I mean,  _ I _ wondered what you were thinking, but I never expected  _ this. _ ” 

“I know how it sounds.” George rushed. “Our story is...complicated. But I am afraid it is past the point of simple desire. I wish for you to meet him, perhaps over dinner, and if I could get your thoughts on him.” 

“Does the boy mean this much to you?” She asked, eyes furrowing together in confusion. George was sure she had never heard of two men desiring each other. 

“He is quick, and witty, just enough to keep me on edge.” George started, smiling to himself as he talked about his boy. “Alexander is very youthful, both metaphorically and literally, and it keeps me refreshed. He makes me feel new again, and if anything he has taught me how to be in love. He is a brilliant mind, which we need more of in our ranks. I wish to know everything about him, and once that mission is accomplished, I want to make new memories with him.” 

Martha, by the end of his speech, had her lips parted almost in wonder, as she took in the new information about George. He couldn’t breathe, not while she was thinking so hard about how he fell for another man. 

“My, George.” She said after some time. “You have never spoken about me in such a way.” 

His heart went cold. “I didn’t think-” 

“No, do not apologize.” Martha smiled, a genuine one, flashing her teeth at him. “I am glad you found someone to make you so happy, George.” 

“Will you meet him?” He asked, hopeful. 

“Of course I will, George. I am curious about this youthful zest in your life.” 

George smiled at her, and he squeezed her hand, appreciating his kind wife who supported him through everything. 

She squeezed his hand back. 

-

Alexander was sitting by the fire with Lafayette, too anxious to eat from the pot of stew simmering over it. 

“You will not get big if you don’t eat.” Lafayette pulled the bowl to his mouth, sipping from it directly instead of using a spoon. Laurens and Tilghman were off in headquarters, writing orders and statements and letters to congress; Alexander had no doubts about their work ethic; the only one that seemed to be in question was his own. 

“I am not even small.” Alexander grumbled, looking down at his hands. They should have a quill in between his fingers, writing down everything he saw around them. If he was persuasive enough, he could even send a letter to Congress; Alexander was sure he had the strength to do so. He was brilliant. 

“I must disagree.” Lafayette shrugged, his ponytail bobbing on his shoulders. 

“Of course you will.” 

Alexander didn’t intend to sound so bitter, but he was very tired of doing nothing, and the fact that George’s wife is here at camp makes him ever more anxious, to the extent that normally, he would have something to do with his hands to keep himself occupied. Most of the huts being built were almost finished, and laying around in the cold waiting for drill instructions from officers who he has never met. 

“Lonely, Alexander?” Lafayette asked, setting the bowl aside. 

“Not as much as you, I assume.” 

“Oh, yes!” Lafayette practically swooned to his side, closing his eyes. “I miss France and Adrinne so much, but the unrest there is going to lead to anarchy at any rate. I am glad I left as quickly as I did.” 

“I heard on the grape vine that you snuck on a ship as a woman.” Alexander shot back. 

“First, no.” Lafayette got serious all of a sudden, causing Alexander to raise his eyebrows at the Frenchman. “Two, what is this grape vine you speak of?” 

“It’s an expression, Laf.” Alexander let his head fall into his hands as he smiled, getting distracted from his anxiety. “It means that people talk about it. Also, it's ‘second,’ not two.” 

“But I started with one.” 

“No, you started with ‘first,’ there is a difference.” 

“I see.” He responded, looking thoughtful. 

Alexander guessed that was the end of the conversation as he intently studied the snow. Nothing would change, if Lady Washington was here. For as long as she might be, Alexander could very well possibly never see George in that amount of time, not even mentioning that he will get a chance to be alone with him. 

He missed George dearly, and it had barely been one week since they had coupled together in that house, on his flimsy bed. It had easily been the best night of Alexander’s life. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw movement of a shadow near the hut. Alexander didn’t jerk his head towards the movement, at first, not knowing what it could have possibly been. Instead, he still looked down at the ground, where the snow was beginning to mold together and stick to his standard issue boots. 

But then he saw the shadow again. This time, moving behind the hut, to where Alexander couldn’t see. 

Was someone watching him? 

Before he could speak up to Lafayette, sitting across from him and having a better view of where the shadow could have gone, Tilghman suddenly materialized at his side, shaking Alexander’s shoulder fiercely. 

“Hamilton.” He clipped, and pointed to George’s headquarters. “General asked to see you.” 

Alexander sighed, looking back down at the snow. He would have to face him sooner or later, with or without his wife; and it seemed to be sooner, with the wife, in this situation. 

As he stood, his back cracked in small pops from being in one position for the better part of the evening. He looked to Lafayette, who stared back with an unreadable expression, and Alexander quickly saluted to the man before stepping in pace to Tilghman’s side. 

“Maybe you’ll actually get some work, Hamilton.” He offered in conversation, boots crunching in time with Alexander’s own. He seemed tired in the evening light, posture sagging and eyes glossy. He must have been working for most of the day. 

“Perhaps.” He kept walking with his face trained on the house in the distance. “I am happy with whatever Washington sees me useful in doing.” 

“At the moment, that seems to be nothing. You slave away to your thoughts walking around camp each day.” 

“That is true.” Alexander sighs, praying the house would just come  _ closer.  _ “I have even resorted to making pleasantries with Burr.” 

He saw Tilghman have an entire body shiver, closing his eyes as if someone had coughed in his face. 

“Christ.” He mumbled, continuing to walk next to Alexander as the sky got darker over the tree line. 

They finally reached the house, where the guards didn’t even bother to try and stop Alexander from entering this time around. They even barely sent him a second look, and the reasoning behind that was most likely due to Tilghman who had shown up beforehand, and spending his entire day within the household. 

As Alexander felt himself thaw out as he stepped inside the house, the fireplace surely lit and candles flickering all around him, he felt his heartbeat increase in speed as he wiped his shoes on the small pick next to the door, letting the snow fall. He would finally meet George’s wife, and most likely, be humiliated in the process of doing so. 

Tilghman walked past him and turned to the right in the sitting room, where the fireplace was. Alexander shook his head and followed him, only to find John in one of the sitting chairs, a lap desk on his thighs, scribbling down something on a sheet of parchment before looking up. 

The look in his eyes gave off a sympathetic look. It would see that Alexander would have to deal with this alone. 

He breathed in the new air, slightly stuffy and absolutely more warm than the air outside, and gathered the courage to lift his feet to go to the wooden door where George, and most likely, his wife, resided. 

Alexander lifted his arm and knocked, fear deeply rooted in his mind, but face stoic. 

“Hamilton, sir.” He called, hoping his voice was loud enough to carry through the wooden door. 

“Come in.” 

His knees almost buckled under him when he had heard George’s voice. This will be the first time seeing him in almost two weeks; work weighing him down and now with his wife arriving to camp. 

Alexander opened the door. Whatever he expected, he did not expect this. 

George was sitting behind his desk, as he usually did whenever inside his office quarters. There was a woman sitting across from him, book in hand, a lilac dress draping her shoulders. She turns, and Alexander immediately blushes. He can appreciate how a woman looks whenever he is presented with beautiful looks, and Lady Washington was no exception. Her eyes were soft, compared to her black hair that was done up in a bun in the back of her head. Her lips were grazed pink in the cold, surely colder here than back in Virginia. 

She stands, walking closer to Hamilton, looking him up and down with curious eyes. 

“Lady Washington.” He says, extending his arm to take her own, raising it up to his lips to kiss the knuckles. “Alexander Hamilton.”    
  
“It is with great pleasure that I get to meet you, Alexander.” She smiled at him as she pulled her arm back, and Alexander had to admit, her voice was one that reminded him of his own mother. “Please, call me Martha.” 

Alexander looked past her over to George, who was still sitting with his head on the palm of one hand, watching the two of them intently. 

“Martha, the pleasure is all mine.” 

She beamed at him, then gestured to the other chair in front of George’s desk, palm up. 

“Why don’t you come sit with George and I, there are a number of things to discuss.” Her voice remained light, for a reason Alexander could not place, he felt as if he was about to receive a scolding from George for something that he had done wrong. 

Rationally, he knew this was not the case, but sat down in the other empty chair anyway, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with the situation at hand. Immediately, he began to run his hand over the pocket on his left leg, where George’s pocket watch was. It had become a nervous tick; one that Alexander would not admit lightly. 

“Wine?” George asked, a small smirk growing on his lips. He knew full well what he was playing at with Alexander; a subtle reminder of what had transpired between them. 

Alexander nodded, throat scratchy. He could use a good drink right about then. 

“Please.” Was all Martha offered in response, looking at Alexander through her hind eye. 

As George uncorked the bottle of wine from Mount Vernon, his face was far too focused on the task at hand. Perhaps he was just as nervous as Alexander was in this situation. He wondered if he had told Martha of their feelings. It was silent besides the pouring of the liquid into the glasses on the wooden desk. 

The wine glass was placed in front of Alexander, and he couldn’t help but notice how George’s fingers lingered too long along the brim; his mind flashed back to when he had stroked his cheek months ago in the tent in Middlebrook. 

He reached for the glass and brought it to his lips, waiting for no one, drinking the sweet liquid and feeling the dull burn fall down his throat. 

“It seems that you have taken quite an attachment to my husband, Alexander.” 

He nearly spit out the wine, choking on the liquid.

“Ma’am,” He frantically started, once he cleared his throat. “I assure you, I do not know what-” 

“Alexander,” George cut him off, to which he looked over at the General, a strangely calm expression ghosting his face. “It is alright. I told her.” 

Alexander raised his eyebrow, and when he glanced over to Martha, just finishing a sip of her wine glass, she was beaming at him. Not in the way that would make someone afraid, because Alexander felt as if it was a warm smile; someone who knew the situation at large. 

Which means that George  _ did  _ tell her. 

“Ma’am-” 

“Please, call me Martha.” 

“Martha,” Alexander corrected himself. “I am truly sorry if I am imposing on your marriage.” 

The woman looked over to her husband, an amused smile grazing her features. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, Alexander thought to himself. Her nose didn’t fit her face quite right, and her chin didn’t seem to bend in the correct places. What Alexander noticed the most, however, was her eyes. The gleaming irises made up for the rest of her face; Martha was pretty. 

“I assure you, young man, you have imposed on nothing. Our marriage was always one of monetary value; I was widowed with children who needed a father, and I had no control over my inheritance, so I needed a man in my life to marry to control the assets. George has always been a close friend, and does not impose over my own endeavours.” 

“She actually has a man she is visiting soon, don’t you, dear?” George asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, I will be leaving in a few days time.” She turned to aide again. “You have done nothing wrong, Alexander. I only hope that you treat my husband in the most perfect of ways, which I have never been able to provide myself. Keep an eye on him as well; he has a strange affinity for the sound of bullets whizzing past his ears.” 

Alexander relaxed in his seat, anxiety from the meeting fizzling away. He breathed out a sigh of relief. 

“Now, George, why don’t you fetch us all dinner, so that I may hear of your wonderful story together?” Martha smiled at her husband, who looked fondly back at her. 

The three of them would have a very interesting night, Alexander thought to himself, sipping on the wine once more. 

-

Alexander awoke the next morning with hushed whispers discussing something in French in the corner of the room. His groggy brain could tell it was Lafayette, trying to stay quiet in order not to wake Alexander, though obviously failing due to his now awake consciousness. 

“What’s going on?” He asked, voice scratchy. Sitting up, Alexander saw Lafayette and John standing in the corner of the hut, skimming over a letter. Whatever John couldn’t seem to read, Lafayette eagerly translated, smile grazing his features when speaking, 

“Mon amie,” Lafayette grinned, sweeping over to the side of Alexander’s bed. “Read this.” 

He pushed over multiple pieces of parchment, all folded and in order, into Alexander’s hands, who was now more awake than he had been previously. 

Skimming the letter quickly, his eyes began to widen as he got further through the French handwriting, describing the details of a mission that Alexander had yet to ever imagine. 

“Has Ge-Washington seen this?” He asked, gazing at his friends and lowering the parchment. 

“We thought it would be best if you tell him.” John said, smiling back at the man in bed, giving him a knowing look. “It would be best coming from you.” 

Alexander smiled, folding the letter and putting it in his breeches pocket. He quickly stood up and began to get dressed in his uniform, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Why did he send  _ you  _ this letter, Laf, and not the general?” Alexander asked, buttoning up his continental coat. 

“I am not sure.” Lafayette knit his brow together. “Perhaps it is because the man cannot speak a lick of French. The man knows that I am here, so he sent the letter to me.” 

“Makes sense.” The young aide finally finished buttoning up his coat, then hoisting his leg up on the bed frame so that he could tie his boots. “I will translate it for him.” 

He walked out of the hut, almost immediately running into someone else, just barely catching himself before falling face first into the snow. He strained himself in order to stand upright, whipping his head to whomever he could have almost run over. 

Burr. 

“You seem to be everywhere.” Alexander said flatly, not bothering to ask if the other man was alright. 

“Aren’t I always?” 

Burr seemed to be put together this morning, more so than Alexander had ever seen him. His overcoat seemed to have been pressed; free of wrinkles and stains from the snow. His boots seemed new; which he thought was odd, considering so many of the men around camp had no shoes at all. They bundled up their feet in cloth, while Burr stood here with gleaming boots that shone with the morning life. 

“What do you need?” Alexander got right to the point. “I am heading to the General’s quarters to relay some vital information for the war.” 

“Oh I am sure it is  _ very  _ important.” Burr seemed to smirk, but mostly his face remained stoic. “I only have one thing to tell you before you run off to your precious General.” 

“And that is?” 

Burr leaned in close to his ear, breathing now mingling with Alexander’s own as he spoke in a hushed voice. 

_ “I know.”  _

His heart stopped in his chest, for a moment. Alexander didn’t have to think twice to understand what Burr meant by those two little words. 

He knew about him and Washington. He knew about what they were, their love, their connection. 

Burr knew. 

The other man walked away before Alexander could formulate a coherent response. Burr’s posture straightened up as he took steps towards his own side of the encampment, knowing that he had stuck a cord with Alexander. 

He needed to see George. 

-

He embraced his boy after walking into the room, immediately calming down with Alexander in his arms. He pulled away early, seeing the confusing look on the aide’s face before capturing the boy’s lips on his own, sighing into the chaste kiss. 

They were running out of time. The kiss couldn’t have been better. 

“Alexander,” His breath ghosted along the other’s lips, missing the feel of them on other parts of his body. “I have missed  _ you. _ All of you.” 

“George, we can’t.” The younger man stepped away from him. “I have news.” 

“Shh.” The general shushed him. “We can talk later-” 

“George.” Alexander grew firm, stepping closer but still some distance away, face serious. “I am serious. I have a letter I must show you, along with other things. They are important.” 

“Alright. Show me.” 

He moved from near the doorway to his desk, sitting at his chair and becoming Alexander to sit. He was disappointed he could not have the boy; he had a particularly nice dream of spreading him across his desk over important letters and documents just to show the amount of power that George held to do so. Instead, he would listen to his boy, paying attention to the more pressing matters than focusing on being inside of him again. 

Alexander sat across from him on the other side of the desk, as he had done so many times before, and reached into this pocket. 

“I know you cannot read this,” he said, handing it over to George’s hands. “But look at who has signed it.” 

George quickly flipped to the last page of the letter, looking at the signature. 

_ Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben.  _

“Is this legitimate?” George asked, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

“Lafayette assures me that it is. The seal from the letter comes from his family heirloom ring, as well as the signature; it matches other letters that Lafayette has looked at.” 

George set the letter down, hand over his mouth as looked at the French scrawl. The letter must mean that the general would be coming to the camp. 

“There’s more.” Alexander grinned up at him. “In the letter, it says that the French are leaning towards joining us in the war, and Steuben would be on his way here to begin to train the army in European army fashion in order to raise France’s confidence in us. He says that the French is greatly impressed with our win in Saratoga.” 

“My God,” George gasped, leaning back in the chair. “The tide of the war would change from this.” 

“Yes. It would.” 

George couldn’t believe what he was hearing, or looking at, for that matter. A general, who has offered to  _ train his army properly,  _ would be here. He would be here in a matter of a month, at most. He was already on his way to the states, and they would finally be in shape to fight the British in the next campaign. 

The time was now. Victory had never felt so close. 

But with victory, comes a price to pay. George was running out of time. 

“There’s more.” Alexander’s smile fell from his face, becoming grim. George paused, feeling his heart sink. “It isn’t good news.” 

“What did you do?” George immediately asked, heart racing at what Alexander could have said next. 

“Me? Why do you assume it is  _ my  _ fault?” 

“You are quite troublesome.” Was all the general offered in explanation. 

“No, I did nothing this time.” Alexander ran his hand through his hair; a nervous tick, George had gathered from the past few months of being around the boy in a relaxed setting. “Burr knows. About us.” 

George had to force himself to breathe. 

“Burr knows, and since he has been stalking around camp and reporting to Charles Lee-” 

“Then Lee will know soon as well.” George finished. He ran his hand across his face, weighing his options. 

If this secret would get out to the general public, both him and Alexander would be hanged; the army and the nearby townspeople would not hesitate. He was even sure they would skip the court martial; Congress wouldn’t even need evidence or a testimony to hang them both. They would be revered across the states as sodomites, his legacy tarnished and his family name dragged through more mud then he could ever possibly imagine. His entire life would be over in the matter of days; not to mention his dear Alexander. 

That one dream, of Alexander dying and his head severed from his body strung up on a pike, organs cut violently from his abdomen and burned in front of him, suddenly came to mind. George could not bear to see Alexander hung; he was sure that he would be first to go while he himself was forced to watch his loved one die. Not to even begin with Martha; she would be shamed from society, living off of his inheritance, never to have a normal social life again. 

“We would die.” Alexander said, voice dead of emotion. “But we would go together.” 

“What are you implying?” 

“We could leave. Right now.” The boy across him sat up straight, coming back to life in front of George’s eyes. “You could resign, I would too of course, and we could leave. Leave the army, leave the war, skip off to the Ohio country and settle. I was reading in your journals on how you surveyed land there, I’m sure you have holdings-” 

“No.” George bluntly said. 

“What?” 

“I said, no. I cannot just abandon this army behind, not with von Steuben arriving shortly-” 

“But we would be dead before he would even set foot on shore!” Alexander cut him off, standing from his chair and face turning sour. “George, we will  _ die  _ if this gets out, we must stay ahead of this and leave while we have the chance!” 

“I am  _ not  _ abandoning this army!” He would hate himself later for raising his voice at Alexander later. “This cause is too important to just  _ leave behind- _ ” 

“So this war is more important than us? Our lives?  _ My life? _ ” 

“Alexander, you know that is not what I meant-” 

“No.” the boy cut him off again, starting to head towards the door, anger visible in his walk. “I understand,  _ General Washington. _ I will deal with this myself.” 

The door slammed behind him, seeming to shake the house. He hoped he had not woken up Martha in the next room over; George would not be able to recount the story to her without spiraling out of control. 

Instead, he sighed and turned his chair towards the window, staring out at the morning glow reflecting off of the snowy ground, listening to the silence around him. 

-

Alexander, still fuming from the conversation that just took place, stormed into Burr’s hut across camp, eyes wide and fists clenched. 

Burr was laying down on his makeshift cot, book in hand, seeming oblivious to Alexander’s anger. He rushed towards the man, quickly tossing the book aside and clutching at the front of Burr’s coat, dragging him up so their faces are only inches apart. 

“What do you want?” Alexander gritted, attempting to not punch Burr in the face. He was limp in the aide’s arms, just taking whatever Alexander had to give him. 

“Oh, nothing yet.” Burr looked him in the eye, daunting. “I haven’t decided.” 

“What  _ exactly  _ is your game plan here?” 

“Oh, well, what is yours?” Alexander shoved Burr back on the bed, who seemed to only tolerate the action, immediately sitting back up in the cot on his own. “I am not the one who is fucking the general of the continental army, using him for information and manipulating him into doing what I want.” 

Alexander scowled.  _ Not this shit again.  _

“I am not doing what you think I am doing.” 

“Sodomy? Oh I am quite sure of that.” Burr smirked. “Your influence over him is problematic for this army and for this war.” 

“I am not influencing him!” Alexander yelled. “I- I-” 

“I don’t care about if you’re fucking him.” Burr cut him off, standing in front of him now. “But everyone else will, should I go to Lee with this information.” 

This was Alexander’s chance. Lee hasn’t been told yet; as far as he could tell. Burr was a snake, and he was sure that he could be lying about if he had told the other commander or not. 

“What do you want, then?” 

“Lee wants to know if you are influencing Washington in ways that no British soldier should, previous or not, and in a way, Hamilton, you are influencing him.” Burr seemed to still hold the same amount of calm throughout the entire conversation, continuing to hold it. “Your charms, your body, who you are, influences him. He will think of you in every choice he makes. He will think of you in every battle plan, every movement of this army, you will be forever on his mind. You influence him.” 

This was all starting to go to Alexander’s head. 

“I do not want anything, yet.” Burr continued. “But I will not tell Lee, because in the future, I will expect a debt to be repaid from you.” 

Alexander weighed the possibilities flooding his mind. He could let Burr expose his secret, and be hung alongside with George. He would die for his love, he knew that much, but his life wasn’t  _ over.  _ His life had just started; there was so much that Alexander hadn’t done, so many battles he has yet to see, so many people he has yet to meet, so much knowledge to study. His life isn’t over, and he wouldn’t be hung for his love. Alexander wouldn’t allow it. 

George wouldn’t leave with him either. His commitment to the army meant more to him, which Alexander would go over later. He couldn’t leave with George in his wake, so if he were to abandon him, the general would have to stay behind to face death alone. Alexander wouldn’t allow that. 

So what did Aaron Burr want with him? What unnamed favor would Alexander have to do in the future in order to keep their love hidden? How did Burr even find out?

“Fine.” He decided. “On one condition.” 

“That’s not how this works.” Burr noted. 

“How did you find out about us?” 

Burr took a moment to pause, thinking of the answer. Alexander waited patiently while Burr moved his hand to his chin. 

“You left his quarters late into the night, once.” He stated, finally. “I also overheard the conversation with Laurens concerning Martha Washington arriving at camp.” 

“So Lee is having you stalk me?” 

“Did I not mention that earlier?” Burr asked, and Alexander realized that he had. 

“Why?” 

“Does it matter?” Burr asked, a smirk once again returning to his lips. “Figure it out, Hamilton.” 

-

George held Martha’s arm through his own as they strolled through camp to oversee soldiers and stragglers, enjoying the light weather of the day. It had been about four days since he had last seen Alexander, and he still hadn’t been able to get the moment out of his head. He would sit at his desk throughout most of the day, waiting for the other shoe to drop for Lee to leak their relationship to the rest of the army, or for Alexander to storm into the room and argue with him more. 

He had even drafted an emergency resignation letter to send to congress, now sitting on the drawer of his desk. George needed to prepare, that if Alexander was adamant about leaving, he would have to follow. He regretted what he said to the boy the moment he had left the room; George wasn’t thinking, and this was his punishment. 

“You seem distracted, dear.” Martha looked up at him, still impossibly short, navy blue dress hugging her tightly as she dealt with the cold. “I am leaving tomorrow, you might as well admit you have not been entirely with me these past few days.” 

“It seems that I haven’t.” He brought up her knuckles and kissed them. “Just an issue with Alexander, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh, do tell.” She smirked and faced forward again; they were on the far side of camp now, far away from where Alexander’s hut is. He was grateful for that; the last thing he needed was to be seen with Martha like this in front of him. They had to keep up appearances, and he was sure that Alexander didn’t understand that as well as a man of high stature like George himself was. 

“I may have said that I put the efforts of the war ahead of our relationship, which is not explicitly a lie, I must add.” He sighed as he walked slowly, Martha listening. “But the way I had said it caused some disruption. I regret doing so.” 

“George, what exactly did you say?” 

“Well, there may be a bigger problem looming over our heads.” He decided to tell her the full story; it was her reputation at stake as well, not just his. “It seems as if a fellow soldier has found out about...the nature of our relationship. That soldier is in the pocket of Charles Lee.” 

“Oh good heavens.” 

“My point is that if it had gotten out that I was with Alexander, then we would both be hanged. We wouldn’t even get a trial from court martial, I’m sure. He asked to run away with me before that happened.” 

“Abandon your duties here and run off to live with Alexander in the country.” She repeated. “That does seem like quite the decision.” 

“Yes, but I simply cannot just leave this army behind. I must stay here, where I am needed. If I resign, Charles Lee will fill the appointment, and we both know how disastrous that would be for the war. There is no possible way I can just pack up and leave everything behind; my estate, this army, this  _ war,  _ not when we are close to making a breakthrough with France.” 

“How did you tell him?” Martha asked, guiding him in touring the camp now, his mind wandering back to the conversation those days ago. 

“I phrased it as if this war was more important than him. Which is not a lie, Martha. I have learned to deal with Alexander during the time since we had met, but I had never expected it to come to  _ this.  _ I never thought I would have to choose between leading this country into victory over a controlling empire and the man whom I love. I always thought I could have both.” 

“But you cannot, George.” Martha squeezed his arm tightly to reassure him. “You must discuss this with him again. I shall take neither side, because in a sense, you both are correct.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You both love each other to the end of time.” Martha sighed; there was that phrase again,  _ we are running out of time.  _ “I do not doubt that you will move past this. But he would throw this entire war away for you, and he expects you to do the same. You, my dear, know that it is more complicated than that, and some part of you wishes you could run away as well.” 

“You know me well.” George looked at his wife, who smirked at his comment. “I have drafted a resignation letter that is sitting in a drawer at my desk. All it needs is a date and a signature. If Alexander were to leave, I will be sure to follow.” 

“Will you take me with you?”    
  
“Of course, dear.” He looked again forward. “Alexander had mentioned fleeing to some land holdings that I own in the Ohio country, though I do not think that to be wise; it would be the first place that they would look for us. I am thinking perhaps further north and across the Monongahela. You could bring Markus as well, us three men would build amazing houses for the four of us.” 

He could see it now, in his head. A beautiful spring day, the sun high in the sky as the birds chirped around them in the trees. Alexander was wading through the river nearby, taking a noon swim from the work of the day. His whole body was relaxed, and George was watching him in the water from the front of their porch on the finished house, Martha and Markus in their own home about three acres away. Alexander had always looked so beautiful. 

“That sounds amazing, George.” Martha sighed as they continued their walk. “It would be nice to take a vacation together with our men.” 

“It is our last resort.” George emphasized. “However, I agree.” 

George looked at his battered and bruised men, lying around him in pain from the cold. 

“It would be a nice change.” 

-

Alexander had decided to give it a few days, until Martha had left, to return to George. His focus needed to be elsewhere in a time like this. 

He mainly stayed in his hut, laying down on the bed, and staring at the top of the wooden bunk. Alexander’s mind kept going over and over through the conversation with George. 

Realistically, he knew the man was right. There was no way that he could possibly just abandon his duties in this war and run away with him. He had invested his entire adult life to service in his country, and Alexander understood that it was a hard decision for George to just give it all up for him. 

They were chasing  _ death,  _ though, he had to understand that they could be  _ dead  _ within a week if Burr leaked their relationship. He had thought that would sober George up to reality; his whole reputation would be swinging from the gallows as well, not just his body. If he gave a damn about anything more than this war, Alexander had thought it would at least be his estate, his wife, and his reputation. 

Or Alexander himself, but he must have been wrong on that account as well. 

His back was beginning to ache at all the laying around in the bed. It wasn’t at all comfortable, even when only being used at night. Now, he was spending the full day for the better part of a week just laying in the same spot. John had assured him that when Martha Washington had left camp, he would tell him, and possibly go with him to meet with George. 

He didn’t want to see the man alone, just yet. It made him too hurt. 

Lafayette and Tilghman had left camp soon after the Frenchman had received the letter from Steuben, something about meeting a messenger on the coast. They had gotten a small scouting team, John apparently wouldn’t let them leave camp without one, and was not giving both Tilghman or Lafayette a rifle on their own. He had mentioned that it would end in both men having musket balls embedded in both their asses. 

Alexander eagerly agreed. 

John slipped in between the cloth door, closing it the best he could behind him to prevent the cold from seeping inside the hut. 

“Lady Washington just left camp.” He said, shivering and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Watched her get into her carriage and George sent her off with a small party to protect her.” 

“Gives something for the men of the army to do,” Alexander sighed. “What I would give to leave this place, like them.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on deserting?” John gasped, looking at Alexander directly. “The sentries wouldn’t let you set foot outside of camp! They will shoot you in fear of you leaking our location to the British-” 

“Will all of you shut up with that?” Alexander yelled; he stretched his hands across his face, annoyed. “I am not leaking anything with no redcoat. That is not who I am anymore.” 

“Alright, alright.” John sighed. “I’m sorry.” 

“You weren’t wrong, though. They wouldn’t let me off the grounds. They know who I am, and who I used to be.” 

“Why would you want to leave anyway?” John asked. “The war could be changed soon, with von Steuben.” 

“Burr knows.” 

John didn’t say anything at first. It was quiet in their little hut at the edge of camp, wind blowing outside. Alexander could see John’s thoughts turning around in his mind, thinking of what to say. 

“Maybe risking being shot by the sentries is a better gamble, then.” was all John decided to say at last. 

“Maybe,” Alexander said, sighing and shifting his body so he was laying on his side. “Just maybe.” 

-

_ “About face!”  _

Alexander quickly screamed the order in English, watching the soldiers turn around with fervor. It had been about a week since von Steuben had arrived, and he along with John had been paired to translate the French language to the soldiers. If he had known that Steuben had not even spoken a single  _ word  _ of English, he would have tried to get himself off of the translating detail. Alexander’s voice was cracking at every other word from the consistent yelling, and John was not too far behind; he had no idea how the Prussian general did it. 

The soldiers were getting better at their movements now, though, so their hard work was beginning to pay off. They no longer looked like a bunch of farmers who had hastily left their lands with a coat and musket; they now marched in rows, learning how to shoot straight and properly, even their uniforms had shaped up since the Prussian general had entered camp. 

Steuben really was the real deal, here. 

_ “Disperse!”  _

After translating, the army quickly broke rank, returning to their respective sides of camp. Alexander sighed and immediately threw his hand around his throat, feeling the soreness there. If he gets a cold from this training, Alexander swore to whatever God was listening- 

_ “They’re getting better every day. I am impressed.”  _ Steuben said in French to Alexander, now standing closer at his side. 

_ “Thank you, sir.”  _ He replied evenly as best he could. 

_ “Need water, boy?”  _

_ “Perhaps at another time. We should discuss shooting formations next-”  _

Alexander was cut off by the rush of footsteps running over to them through the crowd of men. It was John, red faced from the running across camp. He was coming from the direction of Washington’s quarters. 

“Hamilton! Von Steuben!” He called, jogging now. 

_ “What is it?”  _ von Steuben called ahead, and John finally reached the two men standing in the field. 

_ “Washington requests to treat us all with lunch with some of the higher ranks.”  _

_ “Us all?”  _ Alexander asked, heart rate already quickening. 

_ “Yes,” _ John looked at him, face showing regret.  _ “He wanted us there to translate.”  _

_ “Will that cause any issues?”  _ Steuben asked. 

_ “No, sir. Hamilton can translate for you, and I for General Washington. It is nothing we cannot handle.”  _

_ “Let us head that direction, then.”  _

The three men started to walk towards the house near the hill where George was to host them. Alexander had yet to see the dining room; he had only dined with the general in his bedroom. 

He hated to admit that he missed doing so. 

“What the hell.” He whispered to John next to him as they walked. 

“I know. He specifically requested us to be there so we could translate, with Lafayette still gone.” 

“Any news with them and the ambassador?” Alexander asked, shoving his cold hands in his breeches in a lame attempt to stave off the cold. 

“None at all. They should return in a week at the latest.” 

They walked in comfortable silence while Alexander grew more nervous to see the general. John had told him and von Steuben in French that both Knox and Greene would be there, meaning that out of the six of them, four knew of the relationship between him and George. That was far too many to be in one room; it could be dangerous, not to mention the fact that he had not seen George in nearly two weeks since their argument. 

He had no idea what he would say; but Alexander was not there for him, he was there to translate, and he would say nothing else unless it is to talk to von Steuben in French. 

Alexander could do this. He had to. Then he could get out of there as quickly as he could. 

They finally reached the quarters, where the family was nowhere to be seen. Von Steuben was first to enter, heading straight to the dining room where he already knew where to go. Alexander and John followed quickly behind him, entering the room and shutting the door behind them. 

Greene and Knox were already seated at the set dining table, food sitting in the middle, and they were talking to each other in hushed whispers. George was nowhere to be seen just yet; Alexander felt a sigh of relief bubble up inside of him at the prospect that he wouldn't see the general just yet. 

_ “Food looks good.”  _ Steuben said, and John agreed. Alexander sat next to the Prussian general on the far side of the table, furthest away from George as he could be, for he would know that he would sit at the head of the table. Greene was right across from him, who smiled and offered pleasantries. 

For the next few minutes or so, John and Alexander translated for Steuben an introductory conversation with the officers across from them, not bothering to add anything of their own. They helped Knox and Greene get to know the man speaking French; they learned that he fought in the Seven Years War and his brief experiences, along with how he met Benjamin Franklin, who had convinced him to come to the states and fight for the American army. The two officers listened to John’s and Alexander’s translations intently, not missing a word until George finally walked into the room. 

Alexander’s mind supplied only one word when describing the state of the general. 

Exhausted. 

He looked as if he had not slept for days, at least, that is what his eyes told him. George still had on the neatly pressed coat, the perfect stainless undercoat, the perfectly sewn trousers. To someone who just looked at the nature of his dress, he looked like any other day. His eyes spoke a different story; dark circles hung under them, staining the skin dark as if he had been hit twice in the face. His eyes seemed distant, longing for something that Alexander knew only to be himself. 

George missed him. He could see it written all over his face. 

Maybe this would be harder than he originally thought. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Was all he offered before sitting at the head of the table, far from Alexander, where he guessed the general would sit to begin with. “Let us get started with the updates on the army.” 

Lunch (or perhaps, an early dinner) went as smoothly as one could expect with two translators for Steuben. It dragged on, far longer than Alexander thought possible even with himself and John attempting to do their best work. They talked about the training, Greene remarking on how his soldiers actually listened to his orders properly now without complaint, almost begging not to be sent back to boot with Steuben. Knox also added that regular soldiers could shoot properly now, straight and true, along with the fact that they could now clean cannons without making mistakes. Washington took it all in, making comments and points to what Steuben should possibly teach next, learning proper European protocol through the voices of Alexander and John. 

Like he had thought of earlier, Alexander remained silent on his own opinions. He only spoke to translate to Steuben, keeping his personal thoughts within his own mouth. This dinner was not for him, despite the gleaming plate in front of him filled with food that he pushed around rather than ate. 

After the food was cleared from everyone’s plates, the ladies of the house rushed in to clean after them, causing Alexander to accidently thank them in French, to which he quickly apologized. He felt George’s eyes on him the entire afternoon they spent in the dining room; he ignored every minute. 

When they seemed to be done conversing, Greene and Knox were the first to go. They left politely, saying they both had paperwork to catch up on, which caught Alexander as strange.  _ Both  _ of them? 

Steuben asked to take his leave as well to draw up new training plans, to which Washington agreed and said their goodbyes. It was now only John, Alexander and the General within the confines of the dining room. 

“How are you two handling translations?” He asked, leaning back in his chair. 

“They are going well, sir.” John answered for Alexander; he would make note to thank him later for doing so. “The soldiers listening to us aides is quite the adjustment. They turn rigid when we walk by them.” 

“The power of power.” George said, smirking to himself. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Laurens?” The general asked. “Would you give Alexander and I the room?” 

He hesitated. 

“Sir, I am not sure that is a good idea at the moment-” 

“It is fine.” Alexander waved his hands. “You can go John, he will not bite.” 

_ “If he hurts you, immediately run and I will come for you.”  _ John said to him in French.  _ “I will wait outside of the house. Do not leave here alone.”  _

Alexander nodded as he left, leaving only him and George left, on opposite ends of the table. He looked down at the wooden cracks in front of him; anything but facing George directly. 

“What did Laurens say to you?” 

“It does not matter.” He replied, still not looking at George. “He cares for me.” 

“I am not fond of you speaking a language I cannot understand in front of me.”    
  
“You seem to be not fond of other things, as well.” Alexander snapped. He couldn’t help it; he was feeling irritated, trapped. He felt the urge to get up and run. 

“Alexander,” George sighed. “Can you please handle this like an adult?” 

“What, like you?” He finally looked over at the general. “Because you make such  _ sound  _ decisions.” 

“I know when to make them.” George’s voice was firm, and his eyes were unyielding. “This war is important. You know that better than any other soldier here. Please let me explain and apologize.” 

Alexander said nothing, waiting for the general to continue. 

“I have served this country my  _ entire  _ life.” He started. “I served it when I was a surveyor, I served it when Britain went to war with France, I served it in Virginia, I served it when I was an entrepreneur producing tobacco, I am serving it now. This country has been an object of my heart for my entire life.”    
  
“This is sounding  _ so  _ convincing.” Alexander deadpanned. George held up his hand. 

“Until I met you.” George continued, voice growing softer. “I thought I had no room left in my heart for anything else. I had this country, my estate, my friendship with Martha, it was everything for me. Then I walked into your prisoner tent in Trenton, and little did I know that my entire life would change. I thought I had no room left and here I am, so irreversibly in love with you, that it has intertwined with this love for this country. You and this country have blurred into one; I cannot fight for one without fighting for the other. I need to fight this war, with  _ you  _ at my side now, because without you being here, I have no will to fight anymore.” 

“And you would die for that?” Alexander asked. 

“It is what I signed up for.” 

Alexander didn’t respond. Instead, he stood up and walked over to George, slowly, like a slinking cat. He made his way until he was standing at the side of George’s chair, who in turn turned his chair around so he was facing Alexander directly but remained sitting. Without being prompted, he slowly kneeled down in front of the general, now so that the older man was looking down at him. 

“Would you die for me?” Alexander asked, barely above a whisper. His voice was still cracking from screaming orders at the top of his lungs, but at this moment, George didn’t seem to care. 

George reached forward and stroked his cheek, almost too soft for him to feel. Alexander felt tears brimming in his eyes. 

“I would not spare a second thinking otherwise.” 

Alexander couldn’t take the tension brewing between them and rushed upwards so their faces were close together but not quite touching. This was his form of forgiveness, and George took the opportunity to close the distance between them, allbut slowly. 

Their lips touched, and as they kissed, Alexander felt himself melt. The past tension from the few days lingering in his back and sides seemed to fizzle away, gone to oblivion. Their lips moved without rush, without the pressure of time. 

But in their minds, they knew better. They were running out of time, the war might end soon with Steuben at their side. 

In this moment, though, like the moment they shared with their bodies, time waited for them. 

Time waited for George and Alexander. 

-

George was sifting through paperwork. This was his morning. 

It was mostly drafting and approving orders from Steuben, looking through the specifics on how the army would be trained. He found all information that the Prussian man had to offer useful; even though he served in the Virginia regiment close with the British regulars previously, the European customs of training were completely new to him. It made the continental army look like a flock of ducks. 

They were getting better, however. By the time the summer campaign will begin and form in full swing, they will finally be equal with the British. It gave George hope. 

The conversation with Alexander yesterday also gave him hope. He wouldn’t leave, and he trusted Alexander to reel in Burr for the time being. They were close, right? Haven’t they been hanging around camp? 

George rubbed his face in his hands. This paperwork was beginning to make his mind drift. 

Before he could begin the next piece of parchment to approve, the door to his quarters suddenly opened. George had no time to react; he reached into his desk quickly before pulling out a pistol he had placed there when moving into the house for the winter, hand wrapping around the handle before looking up to see who it was. 

“Washington!” The voice of Lafayette called, and George froze, looking up at the young Frenchmen. He slowly put the pistol back in the drawer of the desk, starting to breathe easy. 

“Lafayette,” He started. “You mustn't scare me in such a way. I could have shot you.” 

“But  _ Washington,”  _ He rushed over to the side of the desk where George sat and grabbed his face, kissing both cheeks, tears brimming in his eyes. “I have amazing news from France.” 

His heart seemed to stop. Suddenly, more footsteps could be heard from the hallway and rushing into his room. Tilghman, Laurens, and Alexander were now standing in the doorway of the office. George had a feeling of what Lafayette was about to say, and Alexander’s smile, that bright and beautiful smile of pure joy, only confirmed what the Frenchman said next. 

“France decided to commit fully to our war. Franklin is drawing up an  _ alliance.”  _

-

Alexander was leaning into John’s side later that night, the full moon in the sky as cannons were blasted left and right. Knox approved the use of them for the celebrations tonight; each man would get meat, actual  _ meat  _ to dine upon, and the officers were to hold a sort of party within Washington’s quarters, a small quartet and everything. Alexander would need to sneak in to see George later, but for now, he watched the general atop his horse, waving to the troops with the brightest smile he had ever seen on the man. 

His coat was elegant behind him on top of Nelson, and he soon hopped off when reaching the house, where he grabbed Lafayette into his arms, hugging the man before kissing both of his cheeks. George did the same thing to Steuben, who accepted the affection, and for the first time, Alexander was not jealous. 

“I hope you get him back for that later.” John said over the blasting of the cannons, laughing at George and the other officers, doing all the same actions. The look on Knox’s face was priceless, not even beginning to mention Lee. 

“It’s European custom,” Alexander laughed. “I am going to let it slide this time.” 

The officers slid into the house, cannons still blasting and men cheering, showing more fervor than Alexander had ever seen. The army had never been this rowdy before, and this inspiration from the French was sure to fuel them for the months to come. 

Alexander and Laurens then ate their dinner in their hut, laughing and telling stories until their plates were empty and their sides hurt. Lafayette eventually did join them, complaining of the party scene within the house, and looked over to Alexander. 

“Washington requested to see you,” He said, taking a sip of the wine bottle he stole from the party. “After all, you did help him in this.”    
  
“And what am I?” Laurens asked, laughing and ripping the bottle from Lafayette’s hands. “The leftover chicken feet?” 

“Take it with Washington!” 

The three of them said their goodbyes, and Alexander left the hut, having a feeling that he would not be back for the night. He gave an expectant look over to John, conveying that he might not be back, who nodded expectantly. John would not wait up for him. 

The walk to the house was freezing, the snow solidifying under his boots, but the men around him seemed to forget about the winter. Everyone was drinking beer and dancing around fires, making Alexander smirk at the behavior. He will never relive this moment again, and all he wanted to do was be with George. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

When he reached the front door to the house, however, he paused. Where would he meet George? In the sitting room where all the officers were to be? He thought that wouldn’t be such a good idea, considering Lee is most likely still here, and if he knew about them, it would be disastrous. 

Alexander slipped into the house, the quartet was still playing in the direction of the sitting room. The way the house was structured made it easy to slip by the entrance to the party, but Alexander couldn’t help but take a glance inside. Tilghman was there translating for Steuben, who most were gathered around. He didn’t get a glimpse of George as he crept past the room, headed towards George’s bedroom. 

Opening the door, he slipped inside, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. When it was fully seated within the doorframe, Alexander felt a pair of arms slip around his midsection, lips close to his ear. 

“Lock it for me, love.” 

The younger man grinned, setting the lock in place. George’s lips scraped Alexander’s ear, kissing it gently in his teeth’s wake. It was soothing, and he leaned back into the general’s touch. 

“We are going to win, aren’t we?” Alexander asked, reaching for George’s hand. He was spun around so he could face the man directly; his cape was gone, now, leaving both of them in standard uniform dress. He looked like he had actually gotten sleep now, more relaxed and happy than ever before. 

“Dance with me, beloved.” 

George shifted them to the center of the room, where the table where they ate on Christmas was promptly moved aside to give them space. The general held Alexander close, their chests were touching, and held up his left hand in order for the younger man to take it. Alexander did, softly in the most teasing of ways, of worlds, and placed his right hand behind George’s neck to the best of his ability to compensate for the height. The general’s other hand snaked around Alexander's waist, holding them in place together. 

The older man began to sway them side to side, looking down at his aide, to the beat of the music that they could both faintly hear. Alexander was breathless; here, in this moment, he knew that George was all he ever wanted. 

“Are you not expected to be with your party?” He asked, whispering so they could still hear the music. 

“I told them all that I planned to retire. They all were there for Steuben anyway, however not French he is in reality.” 

“Let them dream.” Alexander smiled, not worried about tripping over his own feet. 

It was a slow dance, and they stared into each other’s eyes. Alexander took his time memorizing the greyness of George’s eyes, the shape of his nose and cheekbones, those flushed lips surely from the Mount Vernon wine that he had been drinking. He absently noticed the open bottle on the table and two wine glasses, surely for the events of later tonight. 

Alexander would have him again and again later. 

“We are going to win this.” George whispered, pulling Alexander’s head closer so his head was against the general’s chest. “We will win this war, and then I will run away with you.” 

“May I see Mount Vernon first?” 

“Of course.” They kept whispering to each other as if not to disturb the universe. “I will show you every room of that house, I will let you swim in the Potomac, I will let you dance in my parlor and I will let you drink tea with me on the porch to watch the sunset over the horizon until the end of our days.” 

“That sounds amazing.” 

“Then we will live in the Ohio country, just as you said. We will build ourselves a house, Martha and Markus one as well, so we will live close to one another. We will farm and live out our days in perfect bliss.” 

“Is this not bliss enough?” Alexander asked, closing his eyes and imagining George chopping wood for their home, or plowing the fields with oxen. 

“This, my dearest Alexander,” George paused to take a breath. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.” 

Alexander lifted his head so he could face George directly. He took in a shaky breath. 

“My body, my soul, my heart.” He said. “Belongs to you, George. It is yours and I hope you do not spill my blood.” 

“I would not dare to dream.” 

“I love you.” Alexander felt tears as they continued to sway. “I love you just as you love me.” 

“I love you.” 

Their lips finally met, giving Alexander the sweetest of pleasures. It was a tender kiss, one that one might share with their closest lover at the end of their days. Though the kiss was perfect, it only seemed to doom them into eternal love. 

The French were coming. They would win the war, and then he would live with George in the Ohio country. Alexander  _ needed  _ them to win this war, they needed their ending. Lee could not know of them, he would not let Burr stand in his way of a happy life with the man Alexander loves. 

He would die for that, too. 


End file.
